Recently, in a bid to leave my day job behind, I took a short trip to Canada.
The ride out was a little bumpy, the ride back was even more so. And turbulence terrifies me. We didn’t bring the right clothes for the weather, which was hot and then cold, and then wet, and then freezing because we were wet. And I don’t like the cold. I injured myself on twigs, car doors, beds, boulders, and docks. And I’m prone to doing that. The roads were flat, and the nights were long. And I completely fell in love with Ontario.
And even later than that, I fell off a boulder by the shore trying to take a picture of the water. As a devout explorer, I got the picture before I limped away pretending to seven other people that the incident totally didn’t happen.
I found something I thought I might have lost in Ontario. It started with enjoying simple moments, and taking photos of things that meant more to me than they could ever mean to anyone else. It started with breathing in air anew, appreciating every second. It has blossomed into a yearning to capture these moments in pictures and sounds and words. It has bloomed and I feel more myself than ever.
Desk jobs can drain you of that spark sometimes. And I never knew mine had been seeping out until the creativity started to return, and I began proclaiming how pretty everything was.
I felt a deep connection to Ontario, and I’m not entirely sure why. Could have been the canoeing, and peaceful nights spent in a cabin by the fire. Could have been the Autumn leaves and dry air. Could have been the moose we heard (and in my mind we almost ran into) on a night time paddle. Could have been the food. All I know is that the words of a famous Canadian, astronaut, and thinker caught in my mind a few days ago in a science museum thrumming with rain, and they’ve been clinging on ever since.
I don’t intend to let life randomly kick me into the person I don’t want to be, Chris Hadfield, and I have you, Canada, those closest to me and the simple beauty of outside to thank for reminding me of that.