Everyone Stopped for the Duck

Over the past week, as the news of the world grew more and more disturbing each day, I was well into my reading of a book called Bittersweet by Susan Cain. A thoughtful blend of narrative, psychology, social theory, and self-help, this book is about longing and how the purpose of longing isn’t necessarily to gain possession of whatever we’re longing for, but to understand and value the experience of longing itself as an integral component of being alive and human. What I long for right now is a more peaceful world, one without senseless slaughter and destruction.

I’m not new to Cain’s work. A number of years ago, I read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. Until then, I hadn’t heard of Susan Cain, but somehow that book made it into my hands. The title alone made it worth buying. As I worked through it, I saw myself on so many of Cain’s pages. I don’t fall completely into the introvert or extrovert categories, more like somewhere in between. But I have enough introversion in me that I felt like I understood myself better after reading Quiet. I keep it on hand and refer to it quite regularly.

Now I’m again taking refuge in Susan Cain’s writing. Bittersweet is a foray into those murky personal inner spaces that many people are reluctant to face. In a world gone amok on so many fronts, I find it somewhat soothing to think about how our troublesome negative emotions of sadness or fear or longing can be productive if we don’t push them away, but instead stay with them, really feel them, see where they take us.

With a sense of global anxiety my constant companion these days, I’ve found myself noticing small ordinary happenings with new eyes. I looked up from my book one afternoon last week and saw an October rainbow. I don’t know why I felt it was unusual. We can get rainbows in October as often as any other month here in our dry climate. But on that particular day it hadn’t rained, or at least not at my house. And yet, there was a rainbow. It was like an unexpected treat, as if the sky looked down and said, aw, you’ve had a challenging day, here you go, here’s a rainbow.

Early the next morning, and I mean early — it wasn’t yet six — Geo and I stood together in our bedroom window looking at the crescent moon, dangling like a pendant on an invisible sky chain. Here you go, said the night sky, enjoy this sliver of moon.

A few hours later, the morning was cool and sunny. Vivid sunny. Each autumn I’m always struck by the sun’s enhanced glow as it rises and sets at an increasingly lower angle. Anyway, in the autumn glow of that morning, I was on my way home from an appointment downtown. The street was congested with construction: yellow signs and orange cones, barriers and blocked lanes, a modest backup of vehicles in both directions, three or four deep. Construction workers monitored the traffic, funnelling four lanes into one each way. I couldn’t actually hear the grumblings coming from other drivers, but I could feel them.

And then came the duck. Brown, speckled, waddling along on her flat feet, duckbill leading the way, no chicks behind her, just her solo self, empty-nesting across the road.

And everyone stopped.

The duck took her time. Halfway across, she paused for a brief scan of her whereabouts. Everyone continued to wait. As we did, we made eye contact, smiled and nodded at each other, workers and drivers sharing the moment. Alone in my car, I laughed out loud. I rolled the window down and could hear that I wasn’t the only one enjoying a good chuckle.

When the duck had completely crossed the road, we all continued on our way. It wasn’t a racing start. More like a slow glide back into the rest of the day. I felt refreshed somehow, as if we’d been participants in a brief fable. We hadn’t required a script. There was no question that we would all stop for the duck. Afterwards I wished I’d taken a picture of her, but in the moment I was too involved to reach for my camera. Sometimes the best photos are the ones that remain in our heads.

Later that day, reading yet more bad news, it struck me that one way to manage our bittersweet longings for a more peaceful world is this: don’t forget to stop for the duck.

Instead of a duck photo, here’s a pic I took while I was on a walk with my daughter and her dog this week. The dog is in this shot. You have to look for her because she doesn’t pose. I have to catch her at just the right moment.

And here’s another one, just because it’s much easier to take photos of fallen leaves rather than traffic-challenging ducks and darting dogs.

In the latest news about my new book, She Who Burns, it’s now been available for just over a month (see links on my website: myrlcoulter.com). Already I’m starting to hear from readers and that’s a wonderful thing. Hearing from readers makes the long writing process worthwhile. Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to my next book event, in Edmonton at the amazing Audreys Bookstore on Sunday, October 29 at 2 PM. If you’re in the downtown Edmonton area that day, please stop by and say hello.

You may have noticed that I’m tweaking my schedule for publishing this newsletter. It will still happen every two weeks, but, as I adjust to the change of seasons, I’m pushing it out from Sunday mornings to Monday afternoons. With the days getting shorter, I’ll be spending my fall and winter Sunday mornings in bed, hiding under the covers for a few more hours.

If you enjoyed this issue of Me Who Writes, please share it with a friend or two.