Wandering Home

Ooh all the pretty colours

Over the past few months, I've had the tremendous good fortune to travel to both the West and East coasts of my beautiful homeland, Canada.  In May, I ventured to Vancouver to visit my good friend Ada, a city and a set of arms that welcomed me with a basket full of joy and beauty.  Last month, I flew east to Nova Scotia to spend time with my favourite/only sister Leah and her partner Conor, a trip that included several days on gorgeous Brier Island in the Bay of Fundy.  And in between those trips, I threw in a weekend in Vermont for good measure.

Travel is a huge part of who I am and what I want for my future, and my desire to travel informs a lot of the decisions I make in my life.  It is part of the reason I live a fairly frugal existence.  When considering whether or not I should purchase something, I quite often find myself asking, "Do I want this more than I want to travel to <insert anywhere in the world>?" and the answer is usually a clear No.  I recently met with a new financial advisor, and when he asked me about my plans for retirement, I explained that my plan is to kick my kids out of the house, sell everything I own, and buy a one-way plane ticket out of here. 

This goal, to travel the world, is also at the heart of my desire to live a healthy life.  I want to get these arthritic bones up a few hills and down a few winding paths before my time comes.  It plays a necessary part in my romantic life, too.  Anyone interested in sticking with me for the long haul has to be prepared to either grab a backpack and come with me, or wait happily for me at home. (I'd send postcards.  I'd sexy Skype, if old arthritic broads are your thing.)

But for now, I am back home and, having exhausted my travel fund for the time being, home is where I'll be for the next wee while, save for a few weekend getaways.  And that's okay.  My homebody nature is as strong as my wanderlust, and I don't think that I see the two as diametrically opposed as I once did.  I have felt a great sense of home in places far from my own - in quaint coffee shops and quiet forest groves and company that feels just right.  And I think that adventure can be found in my own backyard. 

I think that's my next step, actually - figuring out the adventure of my life here, now.  Figuring out what's next for my career.  Pursuing my passions.  Enjoying my life with my girls, who are growing up way too fast.  Exploring the hometown I love and the quaint coffee shops and quiet forest groves and company closer to where I lay my head. Nurturing friendships, old and new.  Maybe even finding romance, ideally with someone who owns either a backpack or Skype account. 

I recently came across a quote by George A. Moore: "A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it."  These few months and these few adventures have brought my needs into clear focus, as I've reconnected with myself and formed an even stronger bond with my children.  Not all questions have been answered, by far, but I've come to a much better idea of what my priorities are, and I'm now ready for phase two of this new life that I've embarked upon.  I'm sure phase two will include more uncertainty.  I'm definitely in the question mark stage of the Underpants Gnomes Profit Plan (get ye to that YouTube link if you have no idea what I'm talking about).  The underpants, though, have been collected.

As have a million and two photos along the way.  These are but a small part of my collection from my trip to Nova Scotia (I promised you some of the whales).  Enjoy!  I sure did.

Sunset with the seals (Brier Island, NS)

The most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen.  (Brier Island, NS)

Our cabin by the sea (Brier Island, NS)

Mama and baby humpback whales

The last whale we saw waved goodbye

Lift Off

Yesterday, I boarded a plane in Ottawa bound for a week of fun with my sister in Halifax, Nova Scotia.  On the ground, before take off, the weather was rainy and a little gloomy, the sun blocked out by miles upon miles of grey.  But then we started moving, the plane's wheels splashing darkened puddles as we rolled down the runway, and then...lift off.  Up we went, higher and higher until we pierced the clouds and rose above, and suddenly we were basking in sunshine and blue skies. 

It was a beautiful moment, and it reminded me that sometimes life can feel like that: miles upon miles of grey.  And sometimes, we just need to get moving, lift off, make our way through the gloom (having faith, even when we can't see where we're going), and rise above it.  Because this is what's waiting on the other side.  

Live in the Now

Wisdom, dockside.
Burlington, Vermont, May 29 2015

When I was packing for my trip to Vancouver a few weeks ago, I faced a dilemma:  Pack my moderately beastly but beloved Canon DSLR camera and face lugging it around in its cumbersome bag, with both my wide-angle and telephoto lenses in tow, or leave it behind to lighten my load and rely solely on my pretty-good-but-no-DSLR iPhone camera to document my trip.  I know.  A First World problem if ever there was one.  But I was so conflicted!  My trusty Canon has accompanied me on all trips and documented all of my major life events since it was gifted to me 10-ish years ago, and the idea of not taking it just seemed ludicrous.  Photography is a major crush of mine and I was going to a gorgeous city by the ocean surrounded by mountains, for Pete's sake, so how could I leave it behind, in favour of taking photos on my phone no less?  But it's so damn heavy!  And I knew that we would be walking the length and breadth of the city.  But the pretty pictures!  So agonizing was my torment that I texted my friend a photo of the bag to ask her opinion, and the reply came that I should leave it behind.

In the end, I agreed, although not without some regret once I saw just how beautiful Vancouver is (hella-beautiful, guys).  Ultimately though, other than a few moments of longing for my telephoto lens, such as when a REAL LIVE BALD EAGLE flew past me, I realized that leaving my camera behind had not only lightened my load but had allowed me to stay present.  With camera in hand, I often get caught up in capturing every moment, every scene, and it can take me away from actually experiencing the beauty around me and the joy of that moment.  As an anti-social photographer ("You go ahead!  I just want to take 300 different shots of this flower!"), it can also take me away from living that moment with the company I'm keeping.

I came home with 114 photos on my iPhone, which may seem like a lot but I was there for 6 full days, making that an average of 19 photos per day, a HUGE cutback from my usual haul.  Most importantly though, I came home with an abundance of memories of time spent with my friend, which was the whole purpose of the trip.  

That experience of staying in the moment was really eye-opening and, without realizing it at first, I came out of it changed.  Last weekend, I went to Vermont with a friend and as we were packing up to go home, she pointed out that I hadn't used my DSLR camera once the whole weekend.  I haven't been clicking away with my iPhone much either.  Yesterday I attended my daughter's school concert and her part was over before I realized that I probably should have videotaped it or something.  Or maybe I shouldn't have.  Without camera in hand or iPhone in front of my face, I fully lived in and loved every moment, marveling at the pride and joy lighting up my little pride and joy.  I saw every smile pass her lips with my own eyes instead of through a lens.  I wouldn't trade that experience for a secondhand version on film.

This is not to say that my camera will be collecting dust.  Photography remains a passion and will continue to be an outlet for my artistic expression and a means for collecting memories.  But moving forward I intend to use my camera as a tool to serve and express who I am now, instead of playing the frantic documentarian trying to bottle up every ounce of now to enjoy "some day", to serve a future that is not promised to any of us.  

On the shores of Lake Champlain in Burlington Vermont, a graffiti artist after my own heart said it best: Live in the now.  I snapped that photo (or, okay, four or five versions...quickly) and then stood in that now, breathing in the hot summer air, gazing at the green mountains and the glistening water.  As nows go, it was pretty marvellous, but you know, so is this one, sitting on my couch typing on my iPad, watching the sky darken on a warm evening, overhearing the Two and a Half Men theme song coming from my neighbour's TV.  Even this now is pretty great.  And I don't need photographic evidence to prove it.

(I would be remiss, though, if I didn't share a carefully curated few of my Vancouver and Vermont photos.  Please enjoy them as part of your now.) 

Vancouver: (1) Granville Island giants (2) Hipster instructions (3) Retro decor at Nuba Restaurant (4) Oh hello! (5) The ocean! (6) Ripples in the sand (7) Vancouver is super pretty (8) Heron (9) Siwash Rock with obliging goose (10) BALD EAGLE! (11) Bridge, obviously (12) Fountain, obviously

Vermont (Burlington and outskirts): (13) A pretty building off Church Street (14) Lake Champlain (15) Dock (16) And more of it (17) Horseback riding! (18) Horses! (19) Beautiful countryside (20) And more of it (21) Graffiti (22) And more of it (23) Incredible mural in progress

On Being Seen

Photo by Ada Wolters
Vancouver BC, May 17 2015

"Here!" she shouted, excited.

We were walking along Industrial Avenue in the Mount Pleasant neighbourhood of Vancouver when inspiration struck.   As a first-timer in beautiful Van City, I had left my holiday's itinerary entirely in the hands of my dear friend and had not been disappointed.  We had by then, my fourth full day in the city, already explored nearly every corner, mostly by foot, fueled by frequent stops for sushi and sorbetto and noodles and curry and falafel and... ohmygosh we ate so much.

We were in fact on Industrial Avenue primarily to visit an incredible chocolatier, Beta 5, and had been busy stuffing our faces with the most amazing dark chocolate when we came upon this place.  I had been forewarned that at some point during my visit, there would be a photo shoot.   An avid (and supremely talented) photographer, my friend was happy to have a new subject and, for my part, I thought it might be fun to be in front of the camera for a change and to perhaps come out of the experience with a nice photo of myself.  I didn't give it much more thought than that, until suddenly she scrambled across the weed-woven gravel and glass, overturned a plant pot (discarding its unloved contents) and instructed, "Sit on this!"

I was surprised by the wave of self-consciousness that hit me.  I was with one of my closest friends, someone I trust who loves and accepts me as I am, and yet I felt exposed.  Although I'm fairly introverted by nature, I'm comfortable in my body and somehow escaped adolescence without the souvenir of body image issues that haunt many women.  But for some reason in this moment, I felt unsettled. 

I didn't know where to look.  I didn't know what to do with my hands.  I took my hair down from its bun for some security.  The sunlight was reflecting off my glasses so I removed them and at once became aware that as much as they had become a part of a personal style that makes me feel good, they also serve as a piece of armour.  She asked me not to smile and another piece of armour fell away (as visions of my horrendous drivers license photo danced through my head).  I posed awkwardly, but not unhappily, for a few minutes before we continued on to further adventures. 

My friend sent me this photograph a few days ago, upon my return back home, and as soon as I saw it I realized what the source of my discomfort had really been.  Those few minutes on Industrial Avenue.  Those few minutes sitting on an overturned flower pot.  That was the longest anyone has looked at me, really looked at me, in years.  And I had forgotten what it felt like to be seen.

This experience and this photo have sparked much revelation in me, insights I'm still unpacking. 

I've realized that I can't recall the last time, before this, that someone took a photo of me. It's possible I'm in a group snapshot or two and there may be a few family photos from Christmas, but I have no recollection of anyone taking a photo of just me, all of me, in maybe the last decade, at least.  Maybe they have, but this is certainly the first time in a long, long while that I've seen a photo of my whole self. 

Really looking at myself, and noticing the thoughts that come up in doing so, has been illuminating.  I see, in this photo, how closed I am (hands clasped, shoulders hunched...I'm sure any body language expert would have a field day here).  I wish a little of what's on my thighs could be relocated to my chest, but I like that I can see my grandmother in my cheekbones, my grandfather in my eyes.  I look every bit a Finn.  I like my outfit.  My hair has gotten loooong.  It was still wet from my shower that morning.  I sort of like that, because it's accurate; I probably walk around with half-wet hair most of the time.  I like the wisp of hair at my temple.  It's a part of who I am.

This is also the first time in a long time that I've seen myself through someone else's eyes.  I can see in this photo not just myself, but how much the photographer cares about and accepts me.  I can see my beauty through her.  I can see my value through her.

Because here's the thing: there's a difference between being looked at and being seen.  What was most revelatory about that moment, about that whole trip in fact, was the experience of being with someone who gets me, who really sees me as I am and loves me for all of it. I had forgotten what it was like to be the centre of someone's attention, the full focus of someone's time and energy.  I had forgotten what it felt like to be in the presence of that kind of friendship, that kind of love.

This experience and this photo have also sparked revolution in me, intentions I'm still defining. 

I want to open myself up to the world, unclasp those hands, pull back those shoulders, lay down my armour.  I want to allow myself to be seen.  Wet hair, Finnish cheekbones, cute outfit, flat chest.  Compassionate heart, sharp wit, nagging fears, bold ideas.  All of me. 

I want to stand in the frame more often, throw my camera into someone's hand if need be, so I'm not surprised by myself, and the shape I make in the world, another ten years from now.

I want to look up and truly see the world around me and, most importantly, the people in front of me.  I want to take the time to not only look at but really see those in my life - both loved ones and strangers - and give them my full attention and time and love.  I want more of all of the above for myself, and I want to give more of it away.  And I want the same for you.

My purpose in sharing this photo and this story is not to fish for compliments or praise (although please feel welcome to heap praise on the talented photographer).  My purpose is to urge you to join me, to lay down your armour and praise yourself, and to surround yourself with those who lovingly praise and appraise you, who not only take the time to look at you but to see you.  We all deserve to be seen like this, to feel the presence of real friendship and love.  We all deserve to be made the model, whether or not a camera is present.  To feel loving eyes looking at us, loving hearts seeing us. To be seen as beautiful, and to see it in ourselves.  To be seen as worthy, and to feel it in ourselves. 

And if you need a reminder of that feeling, might I suggest a walk on a warm, spring afternoon?  Most anywhere will do - there's beauty and sunlight to be found even amongst the glass and gravel - but it's best to travel light.  All you really need is a camera, eyes and heart wide open, and a friend who knows where to find the good chocolate.