Lest They Be Forgotten

Revelations in Chile

(Dealing with job loss and career change is a traumatic experience. The protagonist in this story goes to Chile to lick his wounds, regroup and face the next phase of his life. The writer tries to create art out of this experience. First published in the anthology Changing Ways (Hidden Brook Press) in 2008.

Revelations in Chile – Three Stages of Career Change

Wanting to Climb a Mountain

I walk out through the gate and down the lane, take a left and enter the vineyard. Dogs bark and hens scramble ahead making me wonder if that is dinner—all dressed up. The snow-capped cordillera running the length of this country, hem me in; gum trees circle their bases. The ground is arid; the dried mud, the colour of chocolate.

I am in Chile, under blue skies, in a vineyard at the base of the Andean foothills, trying to decide if I am going to climb, not only this mountain facing me, but the next one in my career that looms as insurmountable as those distant peaks.

The hawk in the dried eucalyptus tree, the rooster crowing, the cicadas and the screechy chorus of kiltaway birds amidst the grape vines, a horse fly buzzing by—anxious to leave its scratchy sting in me—a sprinkler rat-a-tatting somewhere, and the sun hot, on my face, all take me away from the extreme winter I left behind in Canada. In this new environment, my mind and spirit are free to look at things differently, to boldly explore along new trails that may lead to who-knows-where.

The rusting farm machinery reminds me of our struggle for survival. How fast would the equipment be subsumed by the land if left idle, like my business skills will be, if I don’t keep exercising them? Signs abound: the rusty fence posts, the unused well gone dry and losing its corrugated metal covering as the winds pick at it, one sheet at a time; the plough, ground into the brown earth, covered in fine dust and quietly becoming a natural part of the landscape.

The canal is active today, flooding thirsty fields with dirty, but nourishing water collected from rain and snowmelt off the mountain and streaking through pipes along ditches towards the wilting vines. Violet thistles grab the banks of the irrigation ditches in front of the line for the scarce water that tomorrow will stop flowing when the communal tap is reversed to feed the next farmer’s field.

Dead eucalyptus leaves crunch beneath my feet, the late spring’s unborn grass lies dead on the path. The only growth comes from the young espinosa bushes springing up everywhere, confident in their sharp thorns for protection. Yet up on the mountain, their older cousins lay parched and gnawed by cattle that roam at night, shredding trees and leaving deposits of dung that dry and roll down onto the pathway.

The peaceful, dry surroundings mirror the peace within me. Is it merely a smokescreen? For nature’s struggle here also reminds me of the dog-eat-dog world of commerce. There is no escape, just a different kind of a rat-race. Those mountains up ahead look so daunting.

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My walk borders on a pre-occupation vacillating between two extremes: of being or becoming; status quo or change. 

The answers vary, depending on locale. When I am in the snow by the lake at home, I think of being, not sure of what the alternative holds for me. When I am in this vineyard, away from reality, I want to climb that mountain.

But once I return home to the lake, back to those familiar neighbourhoods, I know that being will no longer be an option; I have outgrown those places. The comfortable rugs have been pulled away, the golden handshake delivered, and I am already being pushed towards becoming. It is tempting to linger in this limbo, to delay the decision, for I know that very soon I will have to leave this place and head off in only one of those directions.