On Round Trips to Nowhere and Dusted Evergreens.

We were ready. Car packed, sweaters pulled tight, a cooler tucked in the back seat. Prime viewing windows claimed, playlists curated, sleepy eyes adjusting to the lack of morning light. We planned to chase the fog a thousand kilometers from West to East, from the Pacific to the Kootenays and arrive by early evening to a cabin in the mountains filled with family and old memories.

Sixteen hours and eleven hundred kilometers later, we returned home, defeated.

Up until the early afternoon, we were making good time. We stopped only for gas and drove through rain and snow, through mountains and valleys. The weather was rough at times, leading to squeezed hands and tight breaths as we drove on highways with no visibility and passed cars stranded in ditches but we carried on, anxious and excited to arrive. I was nodding off to Johnny Cash, head leaned up against the window, when I heard my dad and sister comment on how it had been several minutes since they had seen any Westbound traffic.

Minutes later, we ground to a halt. We kept the car running, my dad’s foot on the brake, but soon put her in park after five minutes had passed and cars began to queue behind us. Soon it became apparent that there must be an accident, and a quick twitter search revealed that the only highway in our area of BC had been closed - a terrible accident had occurred. No further updates would be posted for another ninety minutes, so we had no choice but to sit tight just three hours from our family.

Big Christmas snowflakes were falling all around, covering the evergreens with a thick blanket. With nothing else to do but make the most of the moment, my sisters, my love and I got out of the car and walked down the middle of the Trans Canada Highway. We were in a pretty remote area, about thirty minutes away on either side from even a gas station, so everything was untouched. However, the increasing number of sirens and the number of minutes passing began to cast a somber shadow across the whole experience.

Finally we received an update. The highway would not reopen for at least another nine hours. We had no choice but to turn around and start thinking about whether we would stay overnight and finish the drive the next day (which would leave us with only a day and a half to spend with family) or turn around completely. After driving Westward for forty-five minutes and realizing that all the hotels were completely booked with other stranded travelers, we realized that our only real option was to head back the way we came for another eight hours and sleep in the same beds we made that morning while our family reunited without us.

We were crushed. Phone calls were made and plans were debated, but there really was no other option. We would be traveling for 16 hours only to end up back where we started.

We spend the first hour in silence and passed another two semi-trucks in ditches while on the road. Blinding winds and snow and fog caused us to hold our breath again, even more so as details of the accident were released. A semi truck collided with a passenger vehicle and two people lost their lives.

We didn’t make it to our family, but at least we left knowing we could try again next year. Two people didn’t make it home, and never will.

If only, we kept saying. If only my sister didn’t delay us by looking for that book. If only dad didn’t set off the alarm. If only we left ten minutes earlier. At first our if onlys were said with the intention that we would have skipped the delay, but soon after realizing that the crash occurred just ten minutes before we got near the site of the crash we realized perhaps it was the little annoyances that saved our lives.

2014 was a year where I constantly thought “if only.” If only I joined that club. If only I took that class. If only I didn’t choose not to job search right away. If only I didn’t take that risk. If only I said goodbye.

some photos by the lovely juniperanne

Usually my “if onlys” were negative, causing me to think of the good things that didn’t happen. However, maybe I’ve been looking at it the wrong way. Maybe things are happening the way they should, and I just can’t see that yet. Maybe things aren’t happening according to plan because the plans I’ve made for myself ultimately wouldn’t’ve satisfied me anyways.

I’ll never know how things may have been different in 2014, just as I’ll never know if we could have been taken that day had we not been delayed. But perhaps it’s the approach and attitude that matters, not the potential results. Perhaps it’s how we see how we could be benefitted when things go wrong rather than how we dwell on the things we may or may not have lost.

May 2015 be a year of new opportunities, joy among hardship, and peace that surpasses understanding for you all.

on autumn fog & a lullaby of rain

Today was a day of fog & rain, of nature's beautiful decay, of dampness that chills your core and awakens something primal deep within. Today was the first day I've worn a touque since April, the first day since the Spring that my fingers had to dig for warmth in my pockets. I left for my walk to work an hour early and took the extra 45 minutes to capture a moment in an ever changing world.

There's something about the rain and fog that makes me feel more alive. I think it must be the native Pacific NorthWest part of me for while I find energy in this moody tranquility everyone else complains of it's settlement into our little farm town. All I can do is hope it stays so that I can keep falling asleep to the sound of raindrops pounding on the window, the familiar lullaby carrying me away.

Lessons I've Learned the Hard Way on the Road to 22

A few days ago I turned 22, and today I look back on the long road that's lead me here. It doesn't involve Taylor Swift, the mourning of carefree days or the hardships of being a twenty-something, for somewhere along the way I fell into a few dark holes that gave me perspectives and experiences I never thought I'd need to learn for myself. Here's what a redemptive departure from self-destruction has taught me over the years.

Alcohol will not disinfect your internal wounds, no matter how much it stings on the way down.

You cannot save someone who is lost in themselves, no matter how hard you try. Likewise, you are the only one who can save yourself.

Some people believe in a God, or many Gods, and some do not. This has no effect whatsoever on how good of a person they are, on if their marriage will work, or on how they may try to right any wrongs they have committed. Get to know people for who they are, not what they believe.

Driving 120 kilometers an hour down a rural highway with Johnny Cash riding shotgun will not make things better but it will ease the pain more than another day spent alone in the dark.

Don’t cut into your arms thinking you will sow pure relief after planting the blade. Relief may come, yes, but it will be poisoned with the pollen of everything you were trying to drown out, causing your pain to grow fresh once again.

Do not keep reading articles on why you MUST travel RIGHT NOW or you're MISSING OUT FOREVER if you are currently unable to or are not interested. You know why you are not traveling now; you know the circumstances that are disallowing you to to take to the wind like the sparrow you watch out your front window every day. Your reality is different than theirs no matter how many times they write that there is no excuse for you not to be in India right now.

Always keep extra granola bars in your backpack for when you go into the city. You may not have the money or desire to give to everyone you see, but the man with the sign around his neck telling you he’s hungry needs that $.25 bar much more than you do.

Sometimes you mother will cry and you will need to hold her as she has held you so many times. Rock her gently and rub her back as she did to you; repeat the same little rhymes she told you when you’re little world felt like it was falling apart. remember that even super glue gives way sometimes and that it needs a bit of warmth and time to hold everything together again.

A horse will never judge you for anchoring yourself to her when you feel life is about to wash you away. Throw your arms around her neck and know that if you cry she will only pull you in closer to her with her soft, strong head.

People will say more with their eyes than with their words. Some of the strongest pain I’ve seen was accompanied by “I'm fine”'s, despite scarred eyes whispering that they no longer have desire to go on. Some of the most meaningful “I love you’s” have come from silent mouths despite eyes that scream it loud and clear through the storm. Some of the sweetest words come from wide grins whose message is made obsolete by cold eyes. Don’t believe someone if their eyes don’t match what they’re saying.

Everyone has problems and struggles and there is no scale of less or greater than when it comes to life experiences. Do not scoff at people who have problems that seem simple to you; do not tell others that you wish you had their problems instead of your own. You condescension will do nothing to ease their pain but it will make you seem like a pretentious asshole.

Stillness, like silence, is as necessary as business, but it is often abandoned and replaced with devices. Spend a day on an old, secluded trail with a bagged lunch and a notebook and notice how sometimes the sound of your own breathing and the scatter of leaves is the only soundtrack you need.

You do not need to love or be with someone simply because they love you. Sometimes love is not enough, no matter how much of a good person they are. Kiss their forehead one last time and walk away before you find yourself too attached to let go.

You are not a static character in a pre-determined setting. It is okay to go from being a leather jacket clad teenager finding solace in the streets of the city to a young woman with mud on her boots who is most at home tending to horses in a rural province 5,000 kilometers from home. Neither identity cancels out the other - change does not mean that the previous season was a false identity.

Your sisters are the only ones who will understand what it was like to grow up on unstable ground where earthquakes happened constantly without warning. Hold them close, physically when they are near and in spirit when they are far. When the earthquakes give way to a permanent chasm, they will be the only ones to ensure you're don't fall through the cracks as you aim to stand with a foot on each side.

You are made of stardust - do not let anyone extinguish your light.

You will make it. There may be nights where you cry yourself to sleep and where things don’t seem better in the morning and there may be weeks where you just don’t feel like staying around any longer. But you can, and will, make it.

Everyone has walked a different path; everyone knows different things to be true. Regardless of where you are in life, what has life been teaching you lately?

The Walking In Between

Life is not the mountain tops, it's the walking in between

I like you walking next to me.

on moose & freedom

Sometimes life has a way of showing us that we’re being looked out for, that our needs are being met. Sometimes this comes in the form of a much needed work bonus, a freelance opportunity, or a connection with a mentor. For me, it took the form of a moose.

A few months ago, at the beginning of May, I was savoring my last few months as a student and resident of New Brunswick. I spent many weeks living on my partner’s family farm and our evenings consisted of walks through the nearly untouched hills and watching herds of deer that called the old corn fields home bound away from us with every step. I knew that it was time to move onwards to a new chapter in life and although I did not want to leave, I was content with how my three years had transpired. However, there was one part of me that remained unsettled, a near vision and deep yearning that haunted those last few weeks - I had yet to see a moose.

Before moving 5000 kilometers from my hometown and family three years prior, I decided that the only thing I wanted out of my experience was to see a moose. I talked to friends about my moose non stop; in fact, one of the first conversations that my partner Tyler and I had was how I was going to hire him to hijack a bus and drive me around until we saw the incredible creature. But almost three years in New Brunswick had passed, and still, no moose.

By this point, finding the moose was about more than just finding an animal. My time in New Brunswick, although life changing and incredible, was not as I thought it would be. All the other plans and expectations that I had for my university life shattered and crumbled somewhere along the path. Seeing a moose was the one goal that I was able to hold onto throughout the years, the one possibility that remained. However, time was drawing to an end. My apartment was vacant and I only had 6 days left before I packed up for good - yet still the creature remained elusive.

She found me when I finally stopped looking.

The sun was streaming through my car windows as I drove alongside the Saint John River with my love in the front seat and my father (who had flown cross country for my graduation) in behind. The river had recently flooded and its force created marshland from what was previously rich farmland and provincial park. My dad was reading quietly and I was lost in my thoughts as my love tapped patterns on my thigh that matched the rhythm of the country radio station. I was taking everything in, creating mental photographs so that I would not forget the sights of my beloved province. 

 Suddenly, I heard both Tyler and my father cry out in jumbled words. When I realized that they were excitedly trying to communicate to me that we had just passed a moose, I stopped breathing for a moment. I turned my car around as fast as I could and slowly went back the way I came. Time stood still as I saw her - my moose, lying down at the side of the road.

She rose slowly when she saw us, and I turned off the ignition not daring to make a sound. She was a young moose, not quite a calf but not yet a full grown cow either. As she flexed her muscles and stood fully erect at about four feet, I feared she would run away but instead she just turned towards me. Despite her size, she was anything but intimidating - her ears twitched towards me as her eyes met mine as if she was expecting me. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.

Our silence was interrupted by my father throwing an apple that he found rolling on the car floor towards my moose. At first I was terrified she’d bolt at the sudden movement, but when the fruit rolled to the edge of the road just out of reach of her comfort zone, I decided I needed to meet my moose face to face.

Slowly I got out of the car, whispering to my companions to signal if they saw momma or daddy moose heading my way. With my head lowered and hands exposed, I started walking towards her. With every step I took I feared she would bolt but she calmly stood her ground. As I lowered myself to the ground our eyes met once again. I tossed the apple towards her but she showed little interest in anything but holding my gaze. There was no fear between the two of us, nor was there any pride. Neither of us was hunting nor being hunted, as is so often the case between man and moose, and so we simply communicated through spirit - just as man and creature have been doing for thousands of years. After what seemed like forever, we both turned our backs simultaneously and went our separate ways.

My eyes filled with tears as I got back in the car, and my heart finally felt at peace. I no longer felt hesitant about moving on to the next chapter, but instead felt free to move forward. The moose had settled the storm rooted in me, for I no longer felt as though I was leaving incomplete. Without saying a word, she reminded me that the wind will change directions and I will lose my footing now and again but that sometimes its the simplest desires are the ones that mean the most.

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

New Beginnings & Old Dreams

Somehow, it seems the older you get the faster the days fly by. Tomorrow is the last class of my undergraduate degree, and in one month I'll be walking across the stage to get my diploma. The past few months have been filled with long winters and record snowfalls, joyous family reunions and sorrowful last minute flights to a beloved family member's funeral, the stress of a senior year workload and the joyful fear that comes from thinking of life beyond school. My apartment lease expires in 20 days, and then I will no longer be living in this little maritime town, a place that has cradled me through some of the most difficult yet most triumphant years of my life.

Sometimes I feel like I'm always leaving, and this particular move comes with mixed feelings. New Brunswick was a great escape to me, and although I hope to be back, if there's one thing I've learned these past few years it's that nothing is for certain. I've spent the last few days looking back on things I wish I did and things I regret, but mostly, reminding myself that I beat the odds and that I'm on my way to a new adventure. I'll find my way, regardless of the town. They say your heart will lead you home, and while I'm not sure where it's pointing just yet I trust I'll find out eventually. I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that it's okay not to know all the answers.

Last night my love and I went for a walk through town together, reminiscing on the past few years and reliving memories. These photos were taken only a 5 minute walk from campus - going to university in a rural area provides a very different experience than the traditional big city campus. The divide between wealthy students and lower income townspeople is very apparent, and it provides for some really interesting interactions between people as well as architecture. The lighting in the night seemed to fit the mood perfect - the light pushed through the clouds, just as it always does, and as the snow melted into the street I took a deep breath and reminded myself that everything would work out to be alright.

This morning, with him, having coffee.

Yesterday was 891 days since your hand first found mine and we've spent 672 of those days side by side. On day 892, after spending the evening in each others arms, the credits rolled on screen. “You're my June Carter,” you said, and although I'm not nearly as strong, or as smart, or as beautiful as she was the way you look at me makes me think that maybe I have gold embedded in my skin that glows only for you.

There's a lot of things I've been wrong about in life – As a child I thought I'd save the world, as a teenager I thought I'd have it all figured out by 21 and as an adult I thought it would snow today but instead it rained. Yet on the day we met, I somehow knew you and I would intertwine. It's been 1,283,040 hours since that thought and now you are as much a part of me as the Pacific Ocean running through my veins; you exist both within me and beside me like the Atlantic air that we both breathe.

I don't know where we will be in another 891 days but I do know that I could write novels about the way you pull me closer in to you while you sleep without waking or about how your voice sounds when I overhear you saying my name from across the room. I used to laugh about how I was born with steel toes made for kicking lovers to the curb when they got too close but sometime last year I realized the steel has been replaced with a compass that always points me back to you.

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.

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.