Nomads Again


The days and weeks and months are flying by. We’re closing on two months of being back in Canada which seems impossible in a way. We pressed pause on the pushing and seeking and journeying and allowed ourselves a much needed break. We sought respite and we’re gifted it so lovingly, forever grateful we will be to my in-laws for creating a soft landing for us.

Costa Rica (I’m sure you’ve read the saga but find the first part here if not) was a journey that will still take time for me to fully understand and pull apart. It was relentlessly challenging but only because we made it so. We weren’t clear enough when we went, we thought we knew what we wanted and yet couldn’t quite find all the pieces in one go. We could have just tucked in somewhere and resigned to life as it was, it certainly wouldn’t have been bad. And yet…it never was quite right. I’m tireless in my pursuit for finding the right fit, to a fault it seems. But I know what is possible for me and my family in this life and I’m determined to get there. And so when we look back at our tropical foray I will stop confusing it for something it wasn’t. Not a wasted effort. It was exactly what was meant for us in that time. I’ve been so laissez faire in my “let it all go” attitude that the Universe just served up exactly what I asked for - less. Surrender but with no end goal. We did, we gave every last bit of it up - our home, our belongings, our feeling of safety and security. I was naive in my belief that we would be ‘caught’ and yet from one perspective we absolutely were. Held completely by new friends, amazing environments, everything we could need.

I’ll retire the perspective of struggle and only remember the expansive feelings of adventure and joy. I won’t choose memories of challenge and stress but will delight at the dense foliage, life spilling over, the mountains, the ocean. It won’t be that we couldn’t hack it, it’s that we weren’t meant for quite that. Or we were meant for that life - the one that was joyous - but we are also meant for some predictability, some stability and definitely for ease. I now know that both is what I seek and entirely possible. That was the biggest lesson and gift in that time away.

And what of now? We still don’t have all the pieces in place, in fact I could say that we don’t have any of the pieces in place, but my level of trust is unwavering. Yes, even now! I just know this works out in miraculous and beautiful ways. I write this from another gift, a week of lakefront living from a dear friend who so thoughtfully invited us here. I keep seeing the evidence of what I desire everywhere, I’m on a fact finding mission and each day I see more of it revealed.

Don’t get me wrong, I have rallied against my present life, oy. I have cried more than ever before, I have poured my heart out to friends who would listen, I have wallowed and spoken aloud (in the private safety of my car) to God or the Universe or source and cussed her out about the massive discomfort I feel. There’s a weight we’re all carrying and knowing my kids feel it too is crushing at times. We’ve schlepped them to many potential rentals (not to mention across the bloody world) and each time they find something that delights them. “Can we get this one momma?? I love this one!” EVERY. TIME. Because they’re perfect in their childlike wonder and trust and their desire for stability is so strong. So they see the potential of home in each one.

But we haven’t found it yet.

Are we entirely too idealistic? Perhaps. But I know if we can allow ourselves to dwell in possibility, to see what miracles are in store, we will experience them. And we also have back up plans because we’ve at least learned enough this time to not completely fly by the seat of our pants. I won’t go so far again, we will be settled in a home by August, of that I’m certain. It may not look exactly like what we think we want but boy do I ever know that what I think I want isn’t always what’s right in this moment. I have my big dream, and I’m flexible enough to know that it may not happen all at once.

The dream I’m attached to and holding out faith for isn’t ready for materialization, I know that part. And I fight against that too, I so badly want it to be happening NOW. (I mean isn’t that how manifestation works? I get clear about what I want and the Universe just hands it over??) But it isn’t, what good is my anguish going to do? I could allow myself to be completely miserable (and I have for a day or two recently) but every time I think it just can’t happen this way, I get the small whisper in my heart that says wait.

Do you know what my dream is? Have you heard about my wilderness waterfront farm retreat?

I wake in my quiet and peaceful home and rain is drumming softly on the roof. The light is shadowy from the floor to ceiling window in my bedroom but I feel the vastness of the cathedral ceiling above me and am totally comfortable, my body feels rested. I leave my bed, already looking forward to slipping back into the crisp cotton sheets at the days end, and walk to the bathroom. Here the view mirrors the one from the bedroom, out over the lake, grey and still as glass. A forest of trees keeping privacy but we have so much land it’s never an issue. As I wash my face, a small ritual I enjoy because I always use the products I love most, I see a loon skirting her way over the water, gliding with such ease.

The kitchen will be a flurry of activity, but everyone is looked after and looking after one another. Hot breakfasts to be made, plans being hatched about projects for the girls and for Steve and my own creative work beckoning me. Soon. First is seeing everyone off to their own activities, enjoying the mundane tidying and straightening up of the beds and then busying myself in the kitchen. Baking bread so that we have fresh loaves to have with soup later. A process I do so often I can allow my mind to wander to my other work while my hands knead the dough. I love tucking it into the big ceramic mixing bowl I have, a fresh linen towel over top, the sun just peeking in through the clouds now to help it rise at the window sill.

There will be work to be done — the animals need feeding, a piece of fencing in need of repair, tidying and laundry and sweeping up the spilled flour. But also time to sit in a patch of sun while one of the barn cats winds around my ankle and our dog flops down for a belly rub. Time to put up fresh flowers into each room of the house because their presence is so fleeting and exponentially joyous. Time to make eye contact with my husband and bring him a sandwich while he works, time for him to kiss me before I head to my studio to create.

I will write. I will paint. I will get my hands dirty with clay. I will fiddle with beads and solder pieces of silver together. I will create in every way I desire, some because that’s the work I do, but most because my heart feels expressed and my soul feels seen when I do. Maybe I’ll get my porch cafe running and sometimes, on a Wednesday afternoon say, you’ll come by because you’ve heard my pie is out of this world. We’ll sit in the August sunshine, bees lazily alighting on the flowers beside us and watch in awe as a fish jumps to catch a fly hovering over the lake. It’s so hot but the porch fans keep us cool. We’ll laugh together as you tell me funny jokes and I will delight in serving you peach pie with thick vanilla cream and coffee with a dash of cinnamon. You’ll promise to come back for my soup and sandwich special later in the week and I’ll mark you down for bringing a guest to my next high tea. We hug deeply when you leave and I feel so grateful for your presence in my life, so honoured to feed you.

All the while my kids are playing and learning and growing. They’re hovering around and in my hair and at my hip and also in their own wild worlds of exploration. The school house we opened down the laneway is where they spend much of their time and over the years they will graduate from student to teacher. The craft will be ever unfolding as we have someone teach us when to plant in spring, how to put up pickles and can tomatoes, someone will teach us candle making and another will show us how to understand the workings of our solar panels. My girls will swim and fish and canoe and build forts and go bike riding and horse riding and snowshoeing. We’ll skate all winter on our pond and make huge bowls of turmeric scented popcorn while we gather to watch movies or draw or sit and watch the fire. They’ll not wonder about the security of their home, their rooms will be their own and their possessions will be important and always where they have left them.

This is a glimpse. I could write this story all day, every second of how it unfolds. When will it happen? I’m not sure. How will I know it’s coming? I can’t know that for sure either. But I’ll know the land when we see it because of how the sun sparkles through the stand of birch trees. How the land rises up a big hill and the crest overlooks the lake. The valley where the school house will be. The meadows where the animals will be. I’ll know it because of the lilacs that are blooming so effortlessly in May, their heady fragrance will beckon us as we walk the property, Steve’s hand on my shoulder, our eyes sparking as we say “this is the one”.



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