heavy and light.

It seems that change is the only thing I've been able to depend on lately. I'm in a (somewhat) new town again; last year I spent my four months of summer here before going back to school. Now that I've graduated I don't know when I'll leave this town and that brings both a sense of security and a sense of anxiousness. Don't get me wrong, I love this little farm town of 1,000 but I have no friends here, no one to talk to when my boyfriend goes to hang out with the boys he grew up with. I love his sister to death and she's one of my favourite people, but sometimes I wish I had a group of friends to grab drinks or coffee with. I'm going to try and expand a bit but as a shy person meeting new people scares the heck out of me. I long for community. Right now I'm in a nearby town's coffee shop and it's the most at home I've felt in a while; coffee shops are always the same, regardless of province. They're familiar and comforting.

The past months have been chaotic, but not necessarily in a bad way. I finished school two months ago and my dad visited New Brunswick for a week, staying at the farm with my love Tyler, and I while we toured around the province. My mom and sister then came for two whirlwind days and finally it was my graduation from university. There was no real fanfare or deep emotion, as all my closest friends from university had transferred or dropped out a year or two prior, but it was a good way to get closure for a strange chapter in life. To be honest, the thing I'll miss most about living in Sackville will be the horses I grew to love as my own. They have my heart, and their owner is the most precious woman. Being away from New Brunswick is strange.. soon I'll have to change my phone number. College wasn't like anything I would have expected and I still haven't figured out if that is good or bad.

Tyler and I then drove 1700 kilometers in two days from New Brunswick to Ontario and we've been here about 5 weeks now. I'm keeping busy – I work as a keyholder at an independent bookstore, I help my love with the labor work on the private vineyard he manages (I get tractor driving lessons this week!), I've been selling prints online, house and pet sitting for some of the people in town and I've been working really hard at the vegetable garden in the backyard while occasionally selling the extra at the farmers market. Tyler's family is absolutely lovely and I'm so blessed to be living with them for now. Living with parents may be considered lame and cliché for graduates, but both of us are pretty broke and neither of us know where the hell we want to live or what we want to do with our lives so we're taking the summer to try and figure things out.

I'm at a time of transition and confusion. I don't know where I want to live or what I want to do and because I've been so mobile in my life I don't feel like I really have a home base. Aside from family, even my hometown holds nothing but people I used to know and places I used to frequent. It's odd feeling like such a drifter. Sometimes I feel light and filled with inspiration; other times I'm so overwhelmed with doubt and confusion that all I can do is breathe in and remember to stay in the moment. Tonight I made the house a dinner of lettuce wraps, watermelon salad and chips served with strawberry salsa & guacamole; feeling as though I had a purpose filled me up more than the food itself. Things will turn out alright; I just need to remember that more. I plan on trying to make myself write more as, although I've wanted to, it feels like every time I put pen to paper my thoughts run dry. I hope to solve that. I hope to grow. I hope to plant roots somewhere, to find a place that allows me to attach myself and bring forth nourishment and life.

“Our hearts are heavy and light. We laugh and scream and sing. Our hearts are heavy and light.” - Jamie Tworkowski

Building community & solidarity through muffins

Solidarity is a beautiful concept. The act of uniting with a downtrodden group, sympathizing with their struggles and taking on their purpose as your own results in a fellowship that binds together and is able to rise against oppression with newfound strength. Prior to the other day, I didn't realize that solidarity could be achieved through something as simple as freshly baked muffins.

The snow was falling fairly hard that day, and the windchill was causing the temperature to feel like -25. While I was awakening slowly to a new day, stretching myself out of the spell that sleep had put me under, my university professors were out picketing for better conditions for both students and educators. I had been in a daze for the past while, unsure of what to do with myself now that classes had ceased with little warning.

I had long been looking for an excuse to bake, and as I watch the snowflakes outside my window tumble upon the shivering faculty, I decided that I would make a large batch of muffins for them. Not just any muffins, however; I wanted to ensure that I baked them something filled with nutrients, fruits, and warm spices to help them get through the rest of their day. It is easily forgotten how food affects the body, and I wanted to ensure I could they would have energy, not a spike and crash. Most importantly, I wanted them to know I thought they were worth the time and resources it takes to make a good soul food – resources limited to me as a student.

There is a certain serenity that I find comes with baking; I find order in the measured ingredients no matter how I may be surrounded by chaos. It as if by mixing the pure, bland ingredients that we rarely touch otherwise with the loud, exciting flavors that we crave on our palates I am reminded that a certain balance is needed in life. If I'm lacking excitement or there's too much chaos I need only wait until life comes into equilibrium to create an invigorating new essence. With school out of session, things felt out of sorts and I needed that balance once more.

My love and I came together and made a giant batch of morning glory muffins, which we soon dubbed MAFA muffins after the name of our faculty association. As he grated and I measured, we soaked up the warm sunbeams streaming through the window, grateful for the warmth even if it was just a product of the glass. We decided half the muffins would go to the picketers walking outside, while the other half would go to those answering student questions at MAFA strike headquarters. Once in the oven, the muffins filled our humble apartment with rich smells and as soon as they were done we bundled up in our winter wares and stepped outdoors.

The cold cut through us as soon as we opened the door, and our muffins were quickly frosted with a sprinkling of snow. Soon we saw the first group of profs, and as we offered our muffins and gave them our support, their smiles instantly made the trek worthwhile. They were touched that students, out of school on a Monday for the first time in ages, would spend their mornings creating solidarity; one even took a photo. The reaction was the same everywhere we went, and despite the freezing temperatures I began to feel that maybe I was getting more out of the experience than the professors. Maybe this is what doing community together is really about – sharing muffins in the cold.

The baked goods were soon gone and we quickly exchanged the empty tray for another that was full and we headed towards the indoor headquarters. There, professors greeted us with coffee, words of thanks, and an invitation to share in the food with them as we discussed the current conditions at the school causing them to strike. Sometime between one of the professors talking and my love asking a question, I realized that this is what university has been missing these past few years – a sense of belonging for both staff and students together, not as separate entities. I contemplated this as I ate a BLT that someone else had provided, wondering if maybe food was they key to bringing people together – the key to solidarity

Food is often seen solely as a necessity, something that must be consumed in order for our bodies to give us the long hours of constant energy that we demand from ourselves. We often are in such a rush that we don't allow ourselves time to break bread with loved ones at the end of the days; food is eaten in solitude rather than in the company of conversations about triumphs and struggles. There is community to be made and strengthened over a meal, yet we often opt to grab a quick fix before running out the door.

Have you ever had a moment where you shared something with a stranger with the intentions of helping them – yet at the end of the exchange you find yourself wondering if perhaps they were the ones that aided you? I left my apartment that day with the intentions of showing solidarity and support. I returned feeling as though I had a new understanding of education beyond the borders of the classroom; education one can only receive through an exchange of knowledge and experience, over food lovingly prepared by hand.

5 lessons the mountains can teach us

I grew up with the mountains. My first childhood home was in a valley, nestled snugly between several nameless peaks offering plenty of forested creeks to frolic in, while my second home was on the mountainside, high above the Pacific Ocean. Living amongst their beauty has lead me to believe that there are many things the mountains have to teach us, if we only take the time to watch and listen. As important as good council is in life, sometimes we need only to return to the earth to learn what we need to know.

we must stand strong during times of adversity

Mountains consistently face threats in the form of climate change, construction, forced demolition, over-grazing and logging; yet still strong they stand, a symbol of immobility for thousands of years. When times get difficult, often our first instinct is to crumble; to curl up in bed and stay there for a while, ignoring the problems around us. However, this does not allow for betterment for either yourself nor the problem. If you can stand strong, hold fast, and face adversity and your problems head on, you will be able to find healing and determination, giving yourself hope rather than giving yourself feelings of defeat and hopelessness that come with falling down and admitting defeat. 

often the most beautiful pursuits are the most dangerous

Growing up surrounded by ski hills, I often was greeted in the morning by newspaper headlines informing me of late night helicopter searches for hikers and skiers who had gone missing after venturing off trail to explore the mountain. If they were lucky enough to be found, they usually explained to the media that they simply wanted to see more of the mountain's beauty... but that the mountain's beauty was more dangerous than they had fathomed. Often the things in life that look the most attractive  - be it fame, riches or power - come with pitfalls that are easy to fall into if you are not aware of their existence. It is important for you to follow your dreams, but it is even more important to be on the lookout for pits that may cause you to stumble at the top. You want to enjoy the fruits of your hard work - don't allow them to be your downfall.

it is important to provide for others

When it rains, mountains are the first to receive the life giving water - yet they do not keep it for themselves. They retain enough to sustain their flora and fauna, and then they allow the rest of the water to flow down the hills and nourish the remaining ecosystems, villages and cities. When I lived in Vancouver, I got in the habit of keeping granola bars in my purse to give to anyone who lived on the streets that was hungry. I was working at the time, so I could afford the extra little expense. A granola bar was a small amount of food to me, yet it was possible it was the only food another person would eat all day. Similarly, there are probably things that you can do in life that may take a little from your resources, but give a lot to those who are in need. If a mountain kept all the rain for itself, not only would the land below dry up - the mountain would flood from all the excess.

the best surprises often pass us by

I have been fortunate enough to drive through the Rocky Mountains several times. Each drive takes my breath away, but there have been several times where spectacular moments occurred. Not long ago, my family and I were driving on the highway when we saw a grizzly bear cub right on the side of the road, observing the cars passing it by. We drove by slowly, marveling at the organic sight. Another time, we saw bighorn sheep fighting by ramming their giant horns at each other. We pulled over and watched, listening to the sound like thunder echoing throughout the mountains. Life is like the Rockies - there are beautiful surprises waiting for you. However, they are easy to miss. If you are prone to going through life plugged in with headphones on and eyes glued to your devices, try looking up once in a while to see what you may be missing. There is beauty in the everyday.

we must adapt to change

Although mountains are often considered stationary, they are constantly changing and shifting. The Appalachian Range used to be the tallest mountain range in the world, and now the highest Appalachian is only 3,000 feet tall due to environmental factors such as erosion. Yet these mountains, though different than before, are no less beautiful. The world today is changing in faster and in different ways than ever before. New technologies are being introduced. Tragedies are occurring at constant rates. Scientific discoveries are teaching us more about our world everyday. It seems as though the only constant anymore is change itself and the insecurities that come with it. While it may seem tempting to resist all news and live dependent on the information one wants to believe is stagnant, that fear will keep one from growing as a person. The world may be changing, but if we can adapt, we too can still live well and beautifully, letting time and experience soften our hardest ridges.

Coming to terms with home

“I was born very far from where I belong and I am on my way home.” 
For many of my teenage years, I carried this quote with my like a child carries a comfort blanket. I felt as though I did not and could not properly belong to a physical place that could entrance and encompass me – and I ran. I started becoming a chronic wanderer, from city to city, country to country, province to province. I didn't wander to travel, however; I wandered to find a home. I adopted every new town in which I inhabited a bedroom as though it was a breathing organism that could offer me comfort and answers. Every new address put more miles between myself and where I came from; even now, I have a health card for one province and a driver's license for another, despite living in a third province completely separate from the aforementioned.

When I was younger I got my energy from the city – I could feel the pulse of its people through the streets, see their triumphs through the skyscraper lights, hear their sorrows through the raindrops on cardboard boxes. Growing up in two different suburbs as the oldest child, I was never exposed much to the downtown core of Vancouver, but when I attended an adult upgrading school in my 12th grade nestled in her heartland, I felt as though a new part of me had been opened up. I spent most of my free time skateboarding along the seawall in my then regular attire of either leather pants or a leather biker jacket, walking the streets until they were embedded into me like the veins in my body, and meeting new people while learning their stories. Many of my new friends were homeless or at risk of being homeless and although this terrified my poor mother, they were some of the only people whose eyes I could meet during conversation. See, I had just gotten back from yet another home that I had made in Nashville where 6 months were spent sorting out some stories of my own. I felt as though I had to pretend my story was free of uncertainties and setbacks once I was back with the people who helped me continue when I wanted my story to end. With my new friends of Vancouver, I never had to be anything. I know now that the people who had walked alongside me all those years loved me no matter what, but at the time I was just a kid trying to learn how to walk for a second time.

I looked to the city to heal me, but the city didn't know how. I quickly began to feel lost again when I started university, and with Capilano being the 7th school in 4 years graced with my semi-present state, I felt as though it was time to move on from Vancouver and the five different homes I had occupied. So when a then-current long distance boyfriend who I had been with for a year suggested I go to school in his province, I considered it. When I was rejected from UBC, told my grades were not good enough for a second year in my program at Cap, and was urged by my grandfather to go to Mount Allison, I packed up and moved 5000 kms across the country from a city of 2 million to a town of 5000. I figured that since I had been with my now ex-boyfriend for almost 2 years at that point and enjoyed the province, I could spend a year before moving on yet again. I got accepted, and 4 months later I entered the province in which I would eventually choose to plant my roots.

That was 2.5 years ago. Since then, I've never spent more than a few weeks in Vancouver, save for one 3 month summer where I realized how I had moved on from the city just as I had moved on from the relationship that took me away from her. Concrete no longer gives me an energy rush; instead, that comes from driving on an empty highway with my love beside me and Johnny Cash singing to me through my speakers. I no longer need to connect only with the broken; although I reach out whenever possible, I've learned to make eye contact as a result I've learned a conversation with a staff at the local bookstore can lead to a wonderful friendship. There's no busy grid to internalize into my body, but hay from the neighboring farms seems to always find its way onto my clothes.

I'm 21 now, and I feel like I'm only now just coming out of the mindset of my 17 year old self, constantly looking for where I belong - for home. I just came from a summer where I ventured to another new place, with a new bedroom, in a new province – but this time, I did not go to adopt a home, for it adopted me. And when the summer was over, and I had a brand new apartment to move into back in the familiar town of Sackville, I did not leave by running away – I left it with gratitude, but most importantly, I left it looking forward to the next time I would return.

That's the thing about homes left behind. You can always return – you don't have to leave forever. Home isn't one physical location, it's not simply just the place you lay your head at night. It's a combination of all the places where you've left pieces of yourself. And once I begin life after college, first in a little Ontario town and eventually on a large New Brunswick farm, I will let my roots grow deep with migrant Maritime pride - but I will water them with saltwater from the Pacific and creekwater from the Mad River, honoring all the places I will continue to return to and refer to as home.