Conversations with Tine on a Country Path

As Tine curled up in bed tonight, she reflected on how much more pleasant it would be to curl up with a new book from the library, instead of the dusty books strewn on the floor around the sides of her bed. But Tine's walk to the Village Library this afternoon had been unsuccessful in that regard. Tine had returned home from the library with little more to show for it than a very full mind (which isn't so bad, she thought).

So Tine crawled back out of bed and retrieved one of the books on the floor. The book was Martin Heidegger's "Discourse on Thinking" -- as it was bound to be after Tine and Rubob's walk today. Tine had focused during the walk on a chapter in the book titled "Conversations on a Country Path."

Settling snugly back in bed, with her hot water bottle from a Boots Chemist's shop beside her, Tine read:

"So the region itself is at once an expanse and an abiding. It abides into the expanse of resting. It expands into the abiding of what has freely turned toward itself."

"The part about the expanse of resting makes a lot of sense to me," Tine thought, stretching her legs on her soft, light-blue flannel sheets, the ones with the sheep on them.

"That-which-regions is an abiding expanse which, gathering all, opens itself, so that in it openness is halted and held, letting everything merge in its own resting."

"The curious thing is that this makes sense to me," Tine thought, "and I'm not absolutely sure that it should do. He's talking about the Meadows. That's exactly how I feel in the Meadows."

As Tine reflected on this, falling deeper and deeper into the expanse of resting, as it were, she thought, "I wonder why it even needed to be put in a book. It's like one of Rubob's guidebooks to 'Ulysses' in a way. The original text is often far more interesting."

"Why not just go straight to the Meadows?" Tine thought. "The words -- the ones about the openness, the gathering, the expanse -- they're all there, 'abiding' in the fields, she reflected, chuckling to herself over her use of Heidegger's word.

"The whole idea is there in the fields by the river," she thought. The Meadows are like one really big word, in a way, gathering everything else into it, or a long rambling paragraph, like in Rubob's "Ulysses." And chuckling to herself again, she thought of Rubob's word from their walk in the fields yesterday: 'phantasmagoric.'

"I suppose it's easier to follow a helpful guidebook, though, especially when the Meadows are all misted over," Tine thought.

And the curious thing is that Tine fell asleep with the identical picture in her mind as the previous night, but with a longing to revisit the scene on a brighter day.

A Gentleman Farmer

Rubob and Tine headed for the Village Library today, on one of their purposeful walks.

"We need to get some books, Tine," Rubob had said before they left. "We're running out. And that book of yours has been overdue for weeks."

Only the other day, Rubob had looked up from his book and said that like Cincinnatus, he wasn't just a simple farmer. Cincinnatus, Rubob reminded Tine, had been plowing his field when he learned that he'd been appointed dictator of Rome in 458 B.C.


Photo from www.idiotech.com/oacdocs/oacbin/03cin.html

"Unlike Cincinnatus, I don't have any political aspirations," Rubob said, "but I suppose I have literary pretensions."

"Pretensions?" Tine asked Rubob.

"Inclinations, Tine -- leanings. Let's just say literary interests," Rubob said.

The subject had arisen when Rubob had seen a portrait of himself done by a young artist.



"I should be shown with a book in my hand," Rubob said, applying a critical eye to the portrait, as subjects of portraits often do. (The application of a critical eye might have been salutary in this case, because the portrait showed Rubob missing one eye.)

"It's true, Rubob, you are often immersed in your books or your newspapers. Perhaps you should be shown carrying a newspaper," Tine said.

As for his being a simple farmer, Rubob's farm was even smaller than Cincinnatus' modest three acres. Also, Rubob had commented this past weekend that he was something of a peasant because he enjoyed a lump of sugar -- perhaps even several lumps -- in his tea, as the serfs did in Tolstoy novels.

With these thoughts in Tine's mind as she looked at Rubob carrying their overdue book, the two set out for the library. The portrait below shows Rubob, complete with book in hand.



One of the previous owners of Tine and Rubob's house had been a farmer, too, Tine reminded Rubob.

"A peach farmer," she said, "and what's more, one with literary leanings."

Prof. Hillyer had planted peach trees in what had once been the terraced fields below his house, and he'd also taught English at a nearby college.

The one portrait that Tine and Rubob have of him shows him tipping his hat on the steps of the Village Library, as it happens.


Photograph by Henry Mason

"He must have taken this walk many a time himself," Tine said as they walked down their street. “Every village should have a library within walking distance – in fact, every town and every city. It makes a world of difference to walk to the library, don’t you think?”

"Look, Tine -- the hearts on the shutters," Rubob said, as they passed an old white colonial house.



The village was enjoying a January thaw, and spring was in the air. In fact, the man who'd repaired Rubob's vehicle at the muffler shop earlier in the day had said to him, "It won't be long before spring's here."

A new stream was taking shape in a field on a hillside.



The freshet could be heard through the storm grate at the curb, and Tine lingered over it, listening to the gurgling water.



"You're the only one who'd be interested in a storm grate, Tine," Rubob said.

"If you stand over it, you can hear spring coming," Tine said.

"It's the 'Torrents of Spring,' Tine," Rubob said.

"What's that, Rubob?"

"It's one of Turgenev's novels," Rubob replied.

"What's it about?"

"I don't recall much of it, but it's a romance -- a failed romance, I think, like many of the romances in Turgenev's novels. The hero's torn between two women, and one of them is tossed out, like old clothing."

"That's not very romantic, Rubob," Tine said.

"I'm sure he was only being practical," Rubob said wryly.

Further down the street, the world was on the move, much as the season was.



"Out with the old, in with the new," Tine said to Rubob. "That must be where she lived."

"Who, Tine?"

"The woman who got tossed out in 'Torrents of Spring.' "

The two turned down a side street, avoiding the well-trafficked main thoroughfare, as Rubob calls it, because Tine said she wanted some peace and quiet off the beaten path.

She stopped to admire a gargoyle, which was also scrutinizing Tine.



"The denizens of the village are out today," Tine, Rubob said. "There's an air of mischief about him, don't you think?"

"I really wanted a walk in the country today," Tine said. "I'd hoped to see fields yesterday, to take a walk that opened out into bright fields by the river, but of course it wasn't the day for it. In any case, we're running out of books, so we might as well go to the library. It's a purposeful walk -- much more practical."

Yesterday, Tine had recalled walking with her uncle in the Meadows by a river in England. Today she thought of the long path they took to the Meadows, a path that suddenly opened out into bright fields.

"A library is like a field in some respects anyway," Tine thought to herself. "Our walk will take us to bright fields of knowledge."

But the walk, as it happened, opened out into a bright field of vehicles, in the parking lot in front of the library.



Not long ago, the town had cut down trees and expanded the parking area.

"Tarmac," Rubob said, recalling a purposeful walk they'd taken recently to a shopping plaza.

"I'm sure they were only being practical," Tine said.

In the library, Tine headed into the main reading room, leaving Rubob to return her book at the main desk.



Looking up over the mantelpiece, she found that she'd arrived at the river after all.



She gazed at the quiet river for a moment and then went back to join Rubob at the shelf for new books. After glancing disinterestly at the books for just a few minutes, Rubob said, "It's getting late, Tine. We'll have to come back tomorrow."

They hurried out of the library, and Tine looked up at the clock on the church steeple to see how late it was.

"It's always late for Rubob," Tine thought. "More often than not, he has somewhere to go. "



"Time looms over us just like that clock tower," she said to Rubob, who was marching ahead.

"Except on some of our walks," Tine thought. "Then we seem to have all the time in the world. Yesterday was like that. But he's right. It's getting on 3, and 3 is late."

"What's keeping you so busy today, Rubob?" she asked.

"There are fences to be mended, Tine," he replied.

They walked along quietly for a block or so, with Rubob hastening Tine on.

"What are you thinking about, Rubob?" Tine asked.

"Mutual funds," he replied.

"What fun," Tine said.

"The Canada fund," Rubob said. "It was up 37 percent last year. It's largely natural resources, of course -- oil and gas."

"I was thinking about 'Conversations on a Country Path,' " Tine said, "one of my books on the floor at home."

"I've seen it lying around -- that small blue paperback," Rubub said.

"It's about how walks can open out into bright fields, if we allow ourselves to just let go of things, let go of our thoughts -- even our way of thinking," Tine said.

"Meditative thinking," Rubob said.

"That's right," Tine said -- "contemplative thinking. It's not practical thinking, not calculative, Heidegger wrote. It's very different from that. It's why we take our walks. "

"How high would you say that tree is?" Rubob said, stopping briefly to look up at a tall evergreen tree.



"It's at least 100 feet high," he said. "It's magnificent."

The two passed once again the house that the woman in the Turgenev novel was moving out of (or perhaps into).



"I think the idea is to toss out a lot of the stuff in our heads when we're on walks, Rubob," Tine said. "That's what walks are all about. Maybe it's easier on country paths."



"The head of the fund said at the beginning of last year that he thought the gains wouldn't be as great, that the Canadian economy was slowing down. So much for that prediction."

"The fields gather us into their expanse, Heidegger wrote, and reflective thinking begins," Tine said, prattling on like her newly found stream. "It's not practical thinking. It's something else. It's an openness, Rubob. New springs start to flow. I guess that was the purpose of my walk today. How about you, Rubob?"

"Yes, Tine," Rubob said, hastening along.

"Heidegger called it a 'moving-into-nearness,' " Tine said, as they approached the stream on the hillside again. "I guess that means a nearness to the open fields."

Tine tried to imagine what the village fields might have looked like in the time of old Prof. Hillyer.


Photograph by Henry Mason

She and Rubob passed again the house with the hearts carved in the shutters.



They soon reached their driveway, and Rubob said, "I'm 'moving into nearness' to you, Tine."

All in all, it was a very pleasant walk, Tine thought.