It's been a busy day for wildlife - and I write this in the morning. From my bed, I watched a beaver heading out into the bay. At breakfast, a great blue heron landed with a surprising screech in the back channel and stood stock still for so long that I forgot about him and wandered out to discuss dock plans with my builder who had arrived by boat. Sandhill cranes, with their distinctive creaking, flew overhead. And just now, sitting to write, a mink appeared amongst the cardinal flowers, scrabbling in the rocks for frogs or heron scraps.

It's Nature, writ large. Although we now have internet, it's still remote and quiet; any neighbour is a boat ride away.

After almost three weeks of company, I'll confess to feeling nervous about spending five days up here on my own. I even tried to borrow a dog. It's not the beaver or the mink or, heaven forbid, a bear that would make me peer anxiously into the shadows but rather my own imagination. I would swim before bed with anyone else up here and float on my back to admire the canopy of stars without any problem, although I wouldn't drift far. In my heart, I knew that the large snapping turtle who lives in the bay would shoot off the minute she heard a disturbance in the water, but did anything more sinister lurk below the surface?

Alone now, I don't swim at night, but it no longer fazes me to wander around after the sun has set. What changed? My attitude, I suppose, the personal growth that came from this untethered year, and my immersion into this landscape.

Last night, beyond the large window which reflected back the light from the candelabras on the table, I watched a small moon slide towards the horizon. By the time I'd blown out the candles and extinguished the propane light, the moon had set, and I headed to my cabin with a flashlight.

The darkness is like velvet, but not in a tropical sort of way with the croaking of tree frogs, the warm humidity wrapping itself around you like a soft blanket. Here, the thick blackness has an edge. Because it's really black. No moon at the moment. No ambient light. No glow over the horizon from a town. If it's calm, the stars will reflect on the water, otherwise the water, the islands, the trees and the sky blend into an impenetrable darkness. At times, the quiet makes my ears pulse, even though everyone drives their boat at night, returning home after dinner at a friend's or the younger set head out to gatherings. It's as if the darkness, after initially amplifying any sound, then swallows it all.

It's also later in August. The Americans have gone back to school, the days are shorter and the nights cool, so fewer people come up during the week. I wonder what it will be like when I return in September for a week. It's been years, decades probably, since I've been here so late in the season. The morning plunge will remain as it's such a magical way to start the day, but it will be much chillier. I will miss that when I head to Europe in mid-September but perhaps I can do some wild swimming in Portugal.

I've ended up thoroughly enjoying being on my own. I like the busy solitude, especially as the tasks here are elemental and satisfying: breaking up an old dock ramp with a hammer and drill, then using a circular saw to reduce the beautifully-dry planks to a size that will fit in the fireplace; sanding the large table and benches on our deck and then applying urethane - a process that gets repeated three times; looking at some of the warped screens and doors, wondering if I should take a woodworking course over the winter. There are also domestic tasks like sorting the muddled-up linens and sweeping the main cabin but they hold little interest for me. Since I was a child, I've preferred to do stuff outside, to get grubby and then fall in the water. It's odd to take my bathing suit off to swim but really, what's the point of getting it wet when there's no around? And if someone sees, do I really care?

I balance this solitude with the occasional social foray. I had some girlfriends over for cocktails (called docktails up here) on Sunday, which began shortly after 5 and ended at 11 pm. Dinner was the assortment of dips, cheeses, crackers, vegetables, smoked trout and olives that everyone had contributed, and the conversation spun around many diverse topics. I like small-scale socialising.

Tomorrow I head back to civilisation. I will bathe in hot water for the first time in more than three weeks. I will have to put away my moccasins and think about my clothes. I'll be able to turn on lights without a match. I love the contrast, and am happy to know that I'll be back here before the end of the month.

Classic Zen Buddhism says that "by carrying water and chopping wood, you will find the Tao" which is what I experience here in northern Ontario. This cottage of ours, located at the outer edge of the 30,000 islands of Georgian Bay which itself is an enormous body of water on Lake Huron, takes life back to basics.

In our secluded bay, on our little island, surrounded by water and rocks and wind-bent pines, life is shaped by weather. Today we have a honking southerly wind which cancelled our planned kayaking, last week it was horizontal rain and a tremendous thunderstorm. In between have been idyllic days of sunshine and calm. The propane fridge, stove, lights and hot water heater have kept things going here for years, along with a generator, but last year we put in solar. We feel as though we've gone forward a century, but is this a good thing?

We still eat by the light of a candle chandelier, though, and light the two silver candelabras when we want to play cards. On moonless nights it is truly dark, and when clear, the stars, the Milky Way, the occasional planets are magnificent. I feel nervous in a way that makes me feel alive. Perhaps it's clarity rather than apprehension.

View from the main cabin

This is a return to a place that I know well yet again I arrive with a new sense of self-awareness, a shifted mindset and a forward-looking curiosity. Just as in London, the change is marked. The what ifs and the if onlys no longer crop up to needle me with their distorted views of the past. 

I am, by nature, independent. I enjoy solitude, and solitary projects. Each morning, I climb out of bed and, still warm from being under the covers, throw myself into the lake. It's a fantastic awakening; hot water is so overrated. Then I often kayak out into the open and around the many islands of varying sizes. It's lovely in the quiet of early day. 

I bookend my day with another skinny dip, watching the stars above, floating in a calm way, hoping the beaver that lives in the boathouse doesn't inadvertently bump into me. In between these dips, I read books, write, prepare meals and even socialise occasionally. I'm just back from a kayaking lunch which would normally entail meeting up with a group of women and paddling out to picnic on one of the large, unpopulated rocks but today we stayed at a cottage because it was too windy to be in a kayak. 

The older I get, the more I appreciate the humour, experience and wisdom of the women I meet. If we could run the world for ten years. Just ten years. I'm sure we could straighten up some of the challenges facing us today. Then we'd open it up again. Promise!

Last weekend, seventeen members of my family gathered at Richard's cottage (the cottage where I went as a child) to celebrate my mum's 90th birthday, and I saw again how blood runs thicker than water. We all slotted in without a hiccup - siblings, children, cousins, wives, fiancées and lovers - and the teasing was epic. Hats off to my sister-in-law who manages to not only come up with bedding and beds for fifteen but also popped up an old bell-style tent which she decorated with pillows and blankets, books and lanterns for my eldest daughter (her goddaughter) and her beau. She's an Italian romantic at heart.

My mum is amazing but because she's my mother, I tend to take her for granted. So all her strengths and capabilities just wash over me. Before the birthday weekend, she told me she'd "knocked up" a sour cream coffee cake, some brownies and an assortment of blueberry tarts with crumble topping, after preparing some pickled mushrooms and a leek, mushroom and spinach strata for the brunch following the party. This was after we told her she didn't need to be involved in the menu.

The tapas-style meal included Lebanese fattoush to Moo Ping skewers, Thai corn fritters to Korean-style pork lettuce wraps as well as chicken wings, devilled eggs (because they're so good), a 5-foot long charcuterie board and my humble offering of a mango, cauliflower and chickpea salad.
Oh, and lots of wine.

But more than an appetite for good food, my mum is ferociously loyal to family, a keen follower of tennis and has an intelligence that requires regular feeding. She devours a variety of books, has a fabulous memory for all things past (more details about my cousin's visit in 2008 than my cousin can recall), and has a deep knowledge of, to name a few, the Group of Seven, Roman history, silver hallmarks, geographical details from the large number of places she has visited, and religious information left over from a life that began with schooling at a convent in England.

She's an inspiration, really, and I can only hope that I am as nimble both intellectually and physically when I reach my ninth decade. Have I mentioned that we're going to Australia for a month at Christmas? One of the Airbnb hosts, learning of my mum's age, was concerned about the steps to the front door. I was able to reply in all honestly that I'd just been swimming in a lake with her, but left out information about the lack of clothing. As per usual.

At the end of the dinner, we had a pub quiz. I was the quiz master, and thoroughly enjoyed baffling people. The birthday girl's team won, and in spite of the complaints of unfair questions such as what a dog can't smell (they can smell everything) or whether hot or cold water freezes faster (turns out that the hot water theory I'd learned was incorrect according to my nephew who works on the Canadian space arm - so he'd know), the Baby Blues won fair and square.

From tomorrow I'm on my own for a five days up here. I may go a bit feral so that's why I thought it best to get this post out today. 

I cannot return to my home on Hammersmith Terrace until early May next year, so this is a half-time report as I wrap up my recent stay in the UK.

Flying into Toronto last evening felt apocalyptic with the setting sun creating a swirling orange glow out the plane's right hand windows, while on the left, the distinct skyline was masked by smoky fog from the widespread forest fires that were already raging when I left seven weeks ago.

Morning view from my mother's balcony. There's a lake in the distance...?

The fires break my heart a little, as do all the extreme weather events that are happening around the globe. Justine is in Rome as I write, where at least the old churches she loves will still be cool(ish).

Always I feel a fierce pride when flying back to Canada, knowing there are vast tracts of forest and lake and rock below. Such space! Such wilderness! There are those that get overwhelmed at this enormity of unpeopled land but it makes my soul sing.

And yet, and yet, I will return to live in the UK next spring. Threads of curiosity have been pulled, there are paths still unexplored, and I am excited at this conclusion, although I loved my time in Montreal. If I do return to Canada, and never say never but could the wildfires please be brought under control first, Montreal is where I would live. But for now, I have unfinished business in London.

In 1927, Gandhi wrote a letter to a British woman who had become like a daughter to him. Or perhaps more like an intimate assistant as she helped him with his teachings, prepared his food and monitored his bowel movements. He always recorded this basic function, seeing it as an accurate way of measuring the health of his whole body. How ahead of his time he was, as more and more people today learn about the role the gut plays in our well-being, from the nervous system and our propensity to obesity, to how well we sleep and any immune system modulation.

In the letter, he wrote, "... the pendulum has swung back and you are again perturbed. This does not surprise me. If our lucid moments were lasting, nothing further will remain to be done (my italics). Unfortunately or fortunately, we have to pass through many an ebb and flow before we settle down to real peace." 

I find this a positive presentation of the ups and downs of life, different from the Catholic or Protestant attitude that 90% of life and work is drudgery and it's best to just get on with it. Gandhi suggests a more gentle undulation of thoughts and ideas, sprinkled with realisations, regrets to learn from and joy in the small things, the connections, our engagements.

Self-awareness creates a more growth-fueled attitude, and I have gained that in spades over the past eleven months of travel. The sidebar in my blog starts with, "I can't be the woman I was in 2019 no matter how hard I try...," and it's true. Like the 'Ship of Theseus Paradox' that questions whether a ship that has had each of its ageing wooden planks replaced as it crosses a body of water is the same ship upon arrival as it was when it left, I am not the same person I was when I began my travels last August. Not only have many of the very cells of my body changed (and even more so if I compare my physiological make-up to what it was in 2019) but my mind, my outlook, my achievements and my relationships have also shifted.

"Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they're finished," says psychologist Dan Gilbert.

I am not the person I was a year ago. When I set up this blog, the pandemic had undermined my confidence and those post-divorce struggles had reared their existential heads. But I'm glad they did, as it made me kick myself out of my comfortable nest. I challenged myself, and I see this resulting shift as an achievement, something to be celebrated.

But not yet. This is only a half-time report.

My next few months, after a spell at my cottage on an island, in a lake, in a patch of hopefully unburned wilderness of Ontario, will be much more peripatetic than this past year. Not that I didn't travel then - I managed to get around Québec, the US, Costa Rica and Mexico - but that was an experiment in creating community, exploring possibilities of stability. Focusing perhaps too hard on my where.

In mid-September I fly on a one-way ticket to Europe and begin a period of wandering, of testing my ability to leave things unplanned, of turning up at a train station and choosing a journey at random. It's definitely out of my comfort zone. So to ease into it, I'll start with an (organised) Camino from Porto to Santiago de Compostela. Two weeks of pilgrimage along the Portuguese coast, walking on average 20 kms each day, with five women I met at my Baja workshop last March. What a life-shifting week that turned out to be.

Here's a photo that I rather like from the wedding 💜

P.S. The top photo in the blog below is not of dried branches sticking out of long grass but rather the antlers of the roe deer that roam Richmond Park. Clicking on the picture will enlarge it. 

I have half a dozen drafts of blog posts scattered across my desktop. Perhaps I want to create too neat of a package, my experiences and feelings all laid out in an interesting narrative with funny anecdotes and a satisfactory ending. An ending that explains how this year of discovery will end.

How ridiculous is that? And what kind of pressure am I putting on myself? 

I don’t have any conclusions, I’m just having fun.

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I have to say that it’s easy being back here in the UK. I’m not staying in my beautiful home on the river – that has lovely tenants in it paying a hefty rent which funds this year of exploration - but nearby, in the guest room of an amazing artist friend who is mostly away settling into an historic flat she’s bought that overlooks the sea. 

I love the more permissive libertarian culture here – dogs are well-behaved and off-lead, people park their cars in either direction, you can ride a bike through the greens and along the riverside, drink in parks and outside the pubs. It’s almost expected you’ll jay-walk. 

I have enjoyed a full and fabulous social schedule which is only calming down now, exactly a month since my arrival back on these shores. My novelty factor is likely wearing off, plus it’s summer so people go away. I’ve seen films and shared coffees, enjoyed dinners both out and at friends’ houses, I’ve been to yoga classes, cathedrals, museums and medical appointments, as well as the more mundane meetings with the various tax and financial people necessary to keep my world turning.

Reconnecting with my friends has been soul-warming. Many of them are not English, unsurprising for London, and I find them intelligent, mildly eccentric, and fun.

Being out every evening is the extreme opposite to my life in Montreal, where I had much more time for reading and writing. This doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy Montreal. In fact, I loved it, but likely I wouldn’t have the awareness I have now without that time for introspection and consideration. Maybe that’s why I’m so enjoying the connection I have with people here, and understand better how the concentric circles of friendships work together rather than in competition. Absence and awareness create growth. 

To resolve my analogy from a few posts ago, it’s been a comfortable sweater rather than an outgrown blazer.

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Every weekend I’ve been somewhere. That curiosity that I developed over the last ten months is better established, and it’s enjoyable to apply this growth mindset to my home turf. Somehow it feels more robust. Like finding hidden drawers in old pieces of furniture that have sat in the corner of the room for years. This exploration feel quite personal, with less uncertainty and more satisfaction.

I’ve been west (Wiltshire to the wedding), east (Ramsgate), south (Brighton) and north twice (first to the Midlands to spend a weekend with my cousin, and then farther north to Yorkshire to hike on my own and with Justine). The highlight has been the public footpaths that crisscross England. I explored some in the Yorkshire Dales: two decent hikes on my own, then a long 20-km one with Justine. We weaved through sheep-filled fields, over stiles of stone or wood, walked on stepping stones across becks, and followed almost unseeable paths through ferns growing at chin height. It was glorious. If we’d attempted anything like this in the US we would have been shot at dozens of times as we skirted farm buildings, crossed people’s driveways and even went through the back garden of one house. 

I was so happy that I started to whistle, only to find I couldn’t. I kept trying for ages while Justine continued to show me how well she could do it. Perhaps she hoped her expertise would jump start my ability, likely she was just showing off. Weirdly, once back in London I could whistle just fine, although my cheeks get tired. 

My time in Yorkshire was a reminder of how important nature is to me. I need solitude. I crave green fields, trees and space. I hadn’t realised how edgy so much urban time had made me until I wandered out amongst the sheep and felt such joy sweep over me. Just as I had done in Santa Ana back in the winter months, I spun in a circle, arms outstretched, not wanting to be anywhere else, content in myself.

This happiness that I feel in both urban and rural or wild settings make me realise that I am quite at ease being nomadic. Perhaps kicking myself out of my nest, out of my comfort zone, to figure out where my home was, taught me that home is sometimes a concept and not a place. And maybe I will always be on a quest, albeit one without a grail, holy or otherwise. Life isn’t a matter of finding answers but asking the right questions. 

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I stood halfway across a bridge in central London one recent evening. The sun had set although the sky was still glowing in the west, and I stared downriver, towards London Bridge, St. Paul’s Cathedral and the crazy hodgepodge of oddly-named buildings like the Shard and the Cheese-grater and the Gherkin. It felt timeless and sobering. A reminder that we are here for only a blink of time, and that life will continue much the same once we are gone, with throngs of tourists taking selfies, the homeless begging for change. A man stares at his phone as he walks, his leather shoes pointy and worn, there is the chatter of young women heading to their trains after post-work drinks, a couple next to me embrace unselfconsciously. The very stones of this city have experienced the passage of generations.

That feeling reminds me of words written in a post-wedding email I received recently. “The faded patches of grass where the marquee once stood.” There’s a poignancy to that image. Sadness that such a beautiful event, the culmination of months of work, a well-enjoyed celebration and a milestone in the timeline of the bride and groom, is over and relegated to memories now. Yet to have lived and enjoyed such a momentous occasion – one would never wish that away. The grass may be faded, time may be passing, but oh, how glorious it was!

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What is in the air these days? Are the planets aligning in a certain way? Perhaps it’s the Summer Solstice, which happens at any moment. Whatever it is, there I was, threading my way through the platform crowds of Waterloo station having just arrived in from Salisbury and that fabulous wedding (more on that below), aiming for the one turnstile exit that fits suitcases. The exit that blocks up because the tickets never scan and the official helping out keeps getting asked for directions by tourists on the other side. The woman in front of me turns to, well I don’t know, maybe apologise for the delay in that British way, as if it’s her fault, or to share a grimace at the faff, and oh my god, we know each other. From my early days in Costa Rica… 30 years ago.

We were both speechless, literally, with disbelief and incredulity. It took a few minutes for us to get some words out, and then we went for coffee. I met Lydia pre-children, up in the mountains of Costa Rica. She was 22 and living with her dad’s friends, learning Spanish. We laughed as we reminisced about the incredible night view from my house overlooking San José, about taking the dogs on walks in sodden, cow-filled pastures, and playing Super Mario on very basic video equipment until dawn one day. We caught up on other things, like travel and children and marriages and a divorce and work and, and, and… 

There’s obviously a hidden cosmic agenda in this, and we’ve decided to just ride with it. I’m going to see her in Switzerland in October.

Chance encounters or random decisions certainly set all our lives in motion down one path and then another, but serendipity is a real aligning of the stars. Or perhaps we’re just players in a giant chess tournament. Some omnipotent being shifts a pawn, cuts the bishop across the board and your knight is lost. It was a series of serendipitous moves that resulted in the paths of Juno and Gus crossing, in a kitchen, in London, seven years ago. Which in turn formed the framework for my untethered year as I needed to return here by a certain date to celebrate their wedding. 

And what a celebration it was. The first time I have ever been a Celebrant, but perhaps not the last. I worked hard on the words to emphasise their commitment, the importance of being kind, the merit in noticing, cherishing and strengthening their bond. Essentially, I wanted them to not make the same mistakes that I did, and yes, there were mistakes. But we learn from our mistakes, and through this year of self-discovery I’ve managed to put aside many of the regrets that I’ve dragged behind me for years. The divorce was not my fault, but I bear responsibility for the deterioration of the relationship. That’s my most recent learned wisdom.

The wedding took place in the garden of the home of the groom's parents in a small town in Wiltshire. It was idyllic. Chairs were laid out on the grass in rows flanking an aisle, we stood under a leafy arch to conduct the ceremony. After drinks and canapés, we strolled across a wooden bridge whose supports had been wound with greenery and fairy lights towards an enormous marquee set up on a sort of island, beyond which stretched meadows complete with sheep and cows. Idyllic, as I said. Bucolic.  

It didn’t even rain.

160 people sat at four long tables set with gypsophila, exquisite white, rosé and red wines, and a single Riedel wine glass each. Quality over quantity - my style of wedding. The food was delicious, the speeches were some of the most heart-felt, generous I've heard, and laughter, joyful shrieks and applause were scattered through the evening. The newly-married couple are an inspiration to others with their genuine abilities to connect, the love they show each other and the happiness they enjoy together. As a bonus, the dance floor didn’t empty until the music stopped at midnight. 

This is the third wedding within a year for me, and there is something heart-filling about these rituals. I am honoured to have played such an important role in the event. I feel complete. 

Me, after the ceremony!

I’ve been rather remiss on posting on this site. I mean, angst is more gripping, a confrontation or a massive misjudgement with consequences simply makes a better story than the rather contented phase I’ve been going through. 

The only thing I can come up with is the reaction from the older, French, agitated man in a red silk bathrobe after I inadvertently rang his doorbell at 4:30 one sunny afternoon. I had mistaken his place on the busy St. Denis road in Montreal for the edgy tattoo parlour where I hoped to get my navel piercing swapped out (see post from later March if this is news). I mean, okay, the sign was obvious when, looking in disbelief at me and his finger shaking in rage, he pointed it out to me. And perhaps I was interrupting something but if so, why answer the door?

Two famous residents of Montreal - one no longer with us, the other very much alive.

In my view, life is like a four-legged stool, with a leg each for health, wealth, community and purpose. Post-pandemic, my stool was a little wobbly, and I wanted to work on purpose and community, my what and where. Then a few weeks ago, after months of pressuring myself to choose my future base, I realised that the “what” is more relevant than the “where”. After all, if What I am doing is fulfilling, then the Where is really not terribly important, whereas if the What is absent, there is no way that the Where is going to be able to fill that hole. 

I’d been training my binoculars on the wrong thing.

Speaking of binoculars, I used a less-magnifying mirror to put on some mascara the other day and guess what? It was so much easier as I wasn’t trying to fine-tune each individual lash. I treated the row of eyelashes as one entity. There’s a metaphor in there – I should not get too stuck into the minutiae of life but be more receptive and curious to a wide range of things. 

So how will I feel as I head back to London this weekend for a couple of months, my gig as a wedding celebrant now less than two weeks away? To continue with the theme: I am quite content with my Who and my Why, and am now interested to see how the neighbourhood feels. Will it settle around me like a well-loved sweater? Or will it feel like an old school blazer – slightly itchy, tight around the shoulders because I’ve grown, and too redolent of the past?

I’ll keep you posted.