Mist

In late January here on the North Shore we  spent the last few days in a misty, dank, chill, still temperature inversion. We knew because we saw pictures that showed  the sunshine was but a hill climb away. One would only have to drive up to one of our local ski hills to find the sun shining and a warmer temperature.  So pursuing the mist analogy I decided to grasp at straws and make a tenuous link between how we, as human beings, often make poor decisions when our common sense becomes clouded by a rush of blood. After we have blundered ourselves into unnecessary trouble, the mist clears and we ponder that march of folly which caused us to shake our head and rationalise,

“What was I thinking?”

Sometimes, Dear Reader, we need to take stock and curtail our impulses and probably we should learn to listen and ask more. I like the following quotation of Augusta Burroughs,

“Your mind is like an unsafe neighbourhood, don’t go there alone.”

Irene and I own a pathetic paper shredder, a wimpy cheap piece of junky  technology which will jam with irritating frequency if not managed with a delicate hand. It is true to say that this Davidson was standing in the wrong line when delicate hands were being given out. Irene left the house one day and asked if, in her absence, I would shred the back log of documents which were cluttering up our filing system.  I shredded the first document and was pleased at the whirring sound and the confetti that appeared beneath.  So I slowly began to spoon feed single papers into its teeth, gradually feeding in more and more at once. Inevitably there was a clog. Happily I was able to wrench out the pile and clean up the shimash. But soon I was bored and came to the conclusion that there must be an easier and quicker way.  Fire would seem to be the logical conclusion. But, Dear Reader, how to contain it? I looked out of the window into the back garden and a light bulb went off.  Ideal thing to do was to take the lid off our plastic composter, place all the documents on top and set alight to them.  And, of course, the remaining ash would only add to the nutrients fermenting away beneath. I would kill two birds with one stone. I would save time and, with gung holier than thou panache, would recycle and add to the greening of the planet. I would become, in one fell swoop, a hero of the green movement. Parks would be named after me,  pigeons would be perching on and despoiling my statue. Children would arrive at school in green tee-shirts to celebrate Peter Davidson Day once per year. The slogan would read “Plant a tree for Peter Dee”.  I was excited so filled the composter with our remaining documents and set alight to them.

I stepped back in admiration as the conflagration flared. Dear Reader, it went up like a dream, the blaze became stunningly spectacular a veritable volcano of fire. I admired my work but failed to notice the sudden blackening of the smoke as the fire began to consume the plastic sides of the composter. Black lava began to drip as the edges began to disappear. The acrid pollutant curled upwards, a wisp of ozone despoiler in an azure sky. Ah, friends, how often do our dreams become nightmares? I had created a defoliant to rival Agent Orange. I fervently hoped that that famed environmentalist, David Suzuki was not walking his dog along the local Spirit Trail at that moment. Finally I dashed for the hose, turned it on and dowsed the flames. Greenpeace would not be honouring me, nor for that matter, would my dear wife on her return.  A moment of magnificent uplifting idealism had become an embarrassing  memory of red-faced chagrin; hubris to humiliation in one strike of a match.

Reflection, Dear Reader, is a wonderful thing, folly is not. One hopes that one has learned  from past mistakes. Common sense often does prevail but then one has too many morning coffees; an happenstance of good news causes upbeat jubilation; a sleep fuelled bout of renewed energy buds Spring-like into our consciousness. Before sensible reasoning takes over it is often too late. We have ripped up the floor boards to rewire the house, only to hammer them down again when  we understand that the only thing we know about electricity is how to flick a switch.

There is a reason, Dear Reader, that the tortoise beat the hare. Slow and steady often does win the race. I should have realised by now that the few successes in my life have been as the result of a plod. I am a Clydesdale and not a thorough bred. But I am comforted that I can learn my lesson (until the next time). I am also aware that I am certainly not alone in my follies. After all, Nations have lurched into a World War twice, several countries have still not learnt that trying to make a nation in its own image is not going to work. It is, therefore, reassuring to note that I am not the only person who makes a crisis out of an opportunity.  I hereby resolve to make no more decisions when the mist of unreason clouds the sunny logic of good judgement.

Hope you are all well and have made a folly free start to 2022.