There is a bridge over Lake Ontario, near Burlington. It's a black beauty. I don’t know when it was built, but it’s brutally beautiful, made of heavy steel, and perfectly symmetrical. When ever I stroll on the beach or just wander in theWater Front Spenser Park, it comes to my sight.
I like to watch the bridge at different time of the day. When the sun rises in the morning, the bridge is shining gold like hope. It’s gorgeous. More and more people like me moved to Canada with golden dreams of a more secured, relaxed, and balanced life. When they made the decision to take the journey, they were looking for a ‘bridge’ that could get them over to a new land, a land of freedom, prosperity , and security.
The bridge is mysterious sometimes. It gives you different feelings when you look at it in different weather. Especially, when the lake is windy and foggy. It looks like, a steel statue standing there covered with a thin and white lacy “Sari”, -that Indian women wear to cover their bodies. It stands solid when the lake is stormy, and wavy; It stands in the dark background of the moonlit night, shining silver. It stands all the time watching people grew from childhood to old age.
In the evenings, I can see the lights of people’s cars crossing the bridge, twinkling in the black sky. People are on the move, they are busy. A multinational body of citizens, aboriginals, Italians, Scottish, Polish, Japanese, Chinese, AfriCanadians, merges into the flow of the cars with lights of miracle? Where are they going, where is the destination? All sorts of that.
We enjoy not only the beauty of the architectural part of it, which fall within our admiration naturally, but our appreciation of the history it presented. I am so curiou about the traditions, the people traveling back and forth, sailing under or commuting above. It bridges us from the past to the reality, to the things around us and even the memories our lives. That’s so calling from inside.
This bridge is romantic, poetic too. Like a poem of many years ago, it brings me back home too. Looking at it, my mind run home, there are many bridges of sorts, wood, stone, and steel. Especially when I am on the bridge, the big, round, full moon hung over the lake. A typical poem in life:
"Quite and still the night, its above high
through window, shone in frost and white
Look at the moon in dark sky,
My heart escaped to home, on a ride"
- An ancient Chinese Dang Poem
Last winter, I was in a class called "Bridge” too. I loved the way it is called. Immediately it reminded me the bridge at the bay; Wow, What a creative name given! It is a BRIDGE, in its cultural sense; we are all from various countries. Fresh, new to Canada. I told them about this bridge, show them the picture of "my bridge" proudly; ( not all of them know this bridge) I often imagine myself standing on the bridge looking at the lake, the birds in the sky, or the people on the beach. In my mind, I whisper softly 'My bridge", I send my loved photo "the bridge –at the bay" around; I wrote poems about it; I Blogged it in China; Wherever I travel, it is always on my mind. Oh, my bridge, now finally, I wrote you down.