Let's Go for a Walk

Soon, Sky will yawn and open his eyes for Monday. Show up for yourself this week. Declutter the headspace. Keep it simple.

I wrote words to myself on the back of a receipt, back against a tree.

This is my home. This has been my home since 2012.

I was 12 then. 21 now, and coming from a family that moved around often after my birth in West Africa, this is the most "home" I've ever had against my back. The trees are my neighbours and they know me well.

They have my back.

Last year, when the pandemic took my job and I had a lot of time on my hands, I went on many walks to get to know them better. We'd sit together, listen to birds, and watch sunrise—sometimes. I'd go out to see them in the afternoon most often. But the point is I found true friendship among the trees of my hometown, and it was so refreshing.

I had always been fond of nature, and then 2020 gave me a chance to dive deep into my fondness, to find myself completely in love. At home.

It was the brightest of silver linings.

This is home. Now, let's go for a walk. Ready?

Let's Go for a Walk

1 The Hometown Trees

2 Duck Creek

3 My Cat Follows Me Everywhere

4 Coyotes and Circle Moons

5 This is Home

1

The Hometown Trees

These trees have watched me grow into a woman. I used to run through the forest park and howl like a wolf. Sometimes I feel more at home outside than inside any house. It's only my nature. Out here I have learned so much and still never seem to run out of questions, but I run. I run just to feel wind in my hair. I run with joy on my back, and this, is home. You don't need to be a kid to have that kind of fun. You don't have to be little to laugh at nothing.

All the hometown trees teach such things. They encourage play, because it is certain that tomorrow is uncertain. "You only have today and this is always."

“So, you can die today and die tomorrow or live today and die tomorrow."

See, death is certain. Death is always. Caterpillar "dies" to become Butterfly and Winter buries every season, six feet under. Last summer I spent many evenings sitting on a stump—thinking, writing, being—and it occurred to me that a tree died to become again. Not an ending, but a transition.

So then I thought it must be the nature of death. I have lost people to it, and grief is not easy. But a stump told me that life never ends. That life does not know how to die, truly, so it transforms and goes on.

That's life. That is what the tree will tell you.

The flower too. It is what the trees at home tell me, every day. You only have today and this is always. Trees are patient teachers.

I am an eager student.

"Lean on me." They would first straighten my back then say, “Look up.”

I look up and I see the inside of my head. Branches. Synaptic connections. Connection. That's it. Between you and me, I see connection in everything.

It wasn't the back of a receipt this time but my back was against a tree—and I put the words in a journal. There, is my favourite place to relax. Beautiful as ever. I like being at the heart of it all. A big maple tree grows in this field next to a loud intersection and the way its leaves paint the ground during fall is beyond words. Beyond description.

The tree is so huge it's hard to believe.

You need to be there. It's cold and wet now as I write and being there would not be the same, but it's home just the same. The fond memories are enough that I could walk past that tree and feel good inside. What a life.

So pretty.

Maple, teach me to be like you. Always grounded, you stand so tall, so sure of yourself. Sure enough to be only the tree that you are and not any other. But sure enough to love and admire every other.

I wrote it as I sat there.

2020 grew ugly.

Many lives transitioned and transformed. Gone, but unending.

Not forgotten.

It did get ugly, and in it all I grew closer to the life growing in my hometown including myself—and for it I am forever thankful.

Every day.

2

Duck Creek

My brother and I would call it "duck creek" for a reason I'm sure anyone could guess. Yes, ducks! Ducks like to waddle around there, float on water, and do other duck stuff. Duck creek. But the creek is home to so much more than ducks (I just hit "f" instead of "d" because I was typing too fast and it made me laugh)—that's the best part, it's the mall of our neighbourhood.

There you find people of all ages, squirrels, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, ducks, woodpeckers... it’s very abundant and very welcoming. Critters shop for food from the three bird feeders, and last week I saw a woman throw walnuts to the squirrels. We shared a smile. It's the little things for me.

Duck creek makes me feel safe.

It doesn't matter if I'm alone at the bridge watching moonlight dance on water or if it's a sunny week day and kids are pointing at birds—it's home. Solace always. I think because I made it so, because the trees growing there have seen me break down, crumble to the ground, and because earth held me every time. She was there.

"You're allowed to be vulnerable. Then in the waters of your vulnerability, feeling dead and hopeless, you will burst through. You will bloom again."

Her words become our wisdom.

September 22 2020

I'm sitting at a picnic table at the park close to home, and being here in a public place got me thinking. Sometimes I think thoughts to people from a distance, like "you're beautiful" or "I love you" or "what world do you see?" Anything. I believe thoughts reach hearts. Time for a walk.

3

My Cat Follows Me Everywhere

This is Sir Lincoln. He walked his way into my story because he knows he belongs here, and also, he follows me everywhere. Moments ago he jumped onto the table for my attention and now has his back turned in a sassy way because instead of cuddles and kisses, I'm typing. He gets me though.

It's mutual. We're genuinely best friends.

We met when he was born. That’s all I’ll say.

These photos were part of an inside joke with a friend at the time but they are super relevant now so let's pretend it's Lincoln. He does this thing where his eyes get really serious, then he turns around and sits with his back to you for however long he decides.

He’s clingy. He puts the “me” in home.

He’s vocal.

Loud. Restless. But this little man has the sweetest little heart. He sleeps in the bed all night. He’s different. I love him just the way he is, sass and all, because there’s only one Lincoln. His head is rested on my arm now.

Puuurrrr-haps I'll scratch his forehead.

I will never forget the night Lincoln found me sitting on a grassy hill in our area and then chilled like it was everyday business.

"Link? What the heck are you doing here?"

Mow. "Oh, I see."

We sat for a little while. It was cool, and when I stood up again to walk he of course followed me, everywhere.

Mow.

4

Coyotes and Circle Moons

I live next to a nature park. Coyotes live in the nature park. It might be odd that I am extremely happy to have them around, to say they're part of home. But I love wolves (if howling as a kid didn't make it obvious) and coyotes are the closest canine relatives. So of course, I absolutely adore them too.

Honestly, animals in general, but this one goes out to the coyotes.

The homies.

I’ve considered them "guides" since a really special encounter I had with one on October 19th, 2019. That night I was losing myself and needed a little light (magic). Now they seem to appear when my internal world is howling, asking for a simple reminder—how we are all here, together. A tribe of life.

A circle. The coyotes know.

I sat in my friends plant-filled apartment with a blank canvas in front of me, wanting to paint something, needing to paint anything. But I had no idea what to do with my hand. I was thinking too much. I just sat there, until the wolves howled for me in spirit and my hand knew where to go.

Run home. So that’s me in the tree.

Eventually I’ll paint it, but this piece has recently inspired me to write and illustrate children’s books. It’s a dream of mine now.

Dreams are made in the clouds. They need to be brought down to earth to be planted, grounded, and watered with patience, otherwise they'll never grow into a garden. They’ll stay in the clouds, forever snoring.

5

This is Home

Home is here, wherever I walk, really. Thanks for walking with me.