Dearest of the Dearest Ones,

My apologies for the length of time between one conversation and the next. When we left Calgary on September 10, I couldn’t have known the significance of the landscapes and the people we’ve met, we’ve shared meals with, we’ve written alongside, we’ve listened to, we’ve shared ourselves with–  the mystery of life being lived while moving.

November 7, 2023

I’m writing today in the wee hours of the morning after falling asleep last night by 8 p.m.. We’re staying at our friends’ home in New Jersey (though they are away)– a beautiful and comforting refuge, an old and grand home with many doorways and windows: three floors of views. The sound of an aquarium trickles nearby, reminding me of the rivers and lakes we’ve paddled. My shoulders remember paddle-ache and my vow to build arm strength in the off-season. I’m wrapped in a blanket, resting in my friend Tess’ chair. I feel her presence.

To be awake when all else is asleep is a gift this morning. Today, my love of the sunrise extends to a love of the dark-before-dawn. My heart spills emotion. I start sentences and they fade.  

Athena is restless, too. We are out of a routine. Yesterday, we drove more hours than usual without stopping. She stands up from her bed beside me and wanders to the back porch for water and back again. She returns. Our eyes meet. Deep brown pools of Athena-ness. She wills me to understand something. I encourage her to rest. Sing to her. Run my hand over her back. What is here? Athena rests, briefly, and then, wanders into the kitchen. Is she looking for food? I hear the beginnings of her vomiting. Oh…my heart breaks open. She’s suffering. I find her leash. 

My attire? I wear the pyjamas my sister bought me in a generosity-of-many-kindnesses to replace pyjamas-I-loved-and-forgot in a motel room last spring on our ocean-to-ocean trip. My feet walk in croc shoes with faux furry lining, shoes my family members equate with a clown. My jacket is a gift from my son. I wear Love and Good Humour. 

Outside our shelter, the night is misted and the plant life damp. The Rockaway River flows sound. I wonder if our canoe, beached on the back deck between two Muskoka chairs while the car is in for diagnosis and repair, feels the water vibrations resonate up the sloped backyard? Does a canoe long for water? Does a stuffed owl or stuffed bunny breathe with the sleeping granddaughter who holds it while they sleep? What are the limits of reciprocal flow?

Athena walks with me under street lamps past piles and piles of dried oak trees. She seems quiet but okay. I don’t know if her ears might be infected or if her body is integrating something else. So many ticks in this part of the world. We’ve met dozens of them. 

Josh the mechanic will diagnose the car today and we’ll take an Uber Pet to the vet. I remind myself, like I did yesterday while enduring the car’s shudder– six hours of an erratic panic attack– This is the only moment I am in. And all is okay. Boonton is our refuge. 

Part Two- November 8, 2023

4:21 a.m.

I am awake with words, sentences, paragraphs. 

Saltspring Island. Pandemic writing circles. Buzzing energy. Forgiveness. Intuition. Cabin Falls. Northern Paradise Lodge. Manitoulin Island. Warbler’s Roost. Pamet Hill Haven. Names rise, too many to list here. If you are reading this, your name is part of the fabric of this life. We are kin. 

No one does this alone. No one. All your relationships = all your kin. Love flows between all your kin. We are on a pilgrimage to meet our kin. They are. We are. Everything is. 

Peace-making requires many beginnings. Meeting face-to-face with the intention to love begins a new story, continues an old story, allows grief to flow, dissipate. The composting begins.

I am a Warrior of the Human Spirit. 

Meg told me I would know what to do and when to do it. Yes. I am ready.