The first thing I notice when I cross the border into Canada, which I do several times per year, is that my body feels more relaxed here.
I also feel hopeful. It’s as if the very fact that there is a place so close by which is not Hobbesian, not basically violent, reaffirms that feeling.
What I call “the Hobbesian view” brings a sense of urgency and doom with it, and a dismissal or diminishing awareness of the fundamental power of love and cooperation.
I notice here at least twice a day, every single day, some act of helpfulness or kindness, whereas I almost never see such things in Dayton, Ohio.
These observations may seem naive at first, and I am very aware of stereotyping and the weakness of national character studies. But the reality is nonetheless there and cannot be dismissed.
I’ve given a lot of thought over the years to the game of hockey, which I myself consider to be brutal, yet here seems to be considered honorable or even symbolic of the country in some way. I admit that I haven’t figured it out, that it seems anomalous to me. Even mature women here admire the game. Perhaps it’s one way of dealing with the inevitable reality of brutality in life, in the world.
