Greetings [:
It’s been awhile — exactly a year since the last dispatch. How are you, and you, and you?
This time last year, I was in the middle of a month-long walk across Quebec. This time this year, that is, sharing from the here now, I'm writing from some mountains in the Okanagan, a region in interior British Columbia known for its incredible sun, orchards, wineries and cideries.
We live about an hour drive away from the nearest town so we make that trip into town once every 10 days or so. It's a little strange here because living at this altitude, we are kinda a little behind in terms of seasons. We’re talking heaps and heaps of snow, chest-deep, at the end of May. Which is to say, when we go to town for groceries and errands, we also go to town for Spring and in time to come, Summer. For awhile, we were getting all worried: Is this winter here going to end? How much summer will we have left before the frost hits again? As I say, a little strange.
I love the cusps between seasons, and the miracle of life is especially poignant during the transition from winter to spring. We’ve only just moved up here in May, and right now, I have a second shot at witnessing and experiencing this cusp as life bursts forth once again...in the form of buds and shoots, and in the sound and ferocity of rushing waters from snow rapidly melting. It feels like a huge release, and a huge relief. A big siiiigh.
The water from the mountains arrives very cool and very sweet. Sloshing around, the water finds its way down. It seeps and gargles, flowing over and around. Unwavering. Always down, over, around. Is it not amazing and quite wonder-full to think about how all the water that we have now, with us, on earth, in its various forms, have been here since beginningless time? Cycling over and over again in perpetuity. Still the same. And also already different.
☁️ ☀️
Yesterday, while trudging through the white slush, we came upon a huge rock perched between the trees. With its flat and very wide top, it was very inviting. Needless to say, we found ourselves laying on our backs on that rock for quite awhile that afternoon, appreciating a view of the quiet hills far away and the valleys below. The vitality that comes with warmer days is unmistakable.
The great thing about living here is the ease in which I make room for nature in my life.
We play host to a couple of Stellar Jays that come by each day, nibbling and picking and pecking at the mix of seeds we leave out on the ledge. They’d take off when they detect any movement, so we learnt to watch them quietly from behind the tinted doors of the patio. Each morning we’d check on the ledge, topping up the seeds when they’ve been all snapped up. I find myself making mental notes of their dietary preference — I now know which seeds are their favourite, and which ones they leave untouched. With humans, perhaps, that borders on creepy. But with birds, I don’t know if they mind…this feels like intimacy to me. Do they know us like we know them, or watch us like we watch them? Sometimes I catch them flocking to and from the trees just by our apartment, perching on those branches. Do they fly by every now and then to see if we’ve put out more seeds?
Last week, I find myself picking up Jenny Odell's How to Do Nothing again. Spending so much time on the internet in the last month or so has provided me with a much richer context with which to appreciate where she was coming from. A large part of what she writes about rings true — reclaiming our attention, refusal-in-place, and the necessity of re-discovering the interdependencies and connections all around us. Odell’s gentle and persuasive encouragement as she makes the case for “standing apart” as an intentional stance — rather than one of retreat and exile — is something I truly appreciate; turning away and walking away strikes me as being not quite right. Reclaiming our attention is something I would like to delve deeper into, perhaps on another day. But right now, while we are on the topic of birds, allow me to share with you a thing or two about Odell’s practice of "bird-noticing" that stuck with me:
Bird-watching is the opposite of looking something up online. You can’t really look for birds; you can’t make a bird come out and identify itself to you. The most you can do is walk quietly and wait until you hear something, and then stand motionless under a tree, using your animal senses to figure out where and what it is.
and then she goes on...
At first, I just noticed birdsong more. Of course it had been there all along, but now that I was paying attention to it, I realized that it was almost everywhere, all day, all the time. And then, one by one, I started learning each song and associating it with a bird, so that now when I walk into the Rose Garden, I inadvertently acknowledge them in my head as though they were people: “Hi, raven, robin, song sparrow, chickadee, goldfinch, towhee, hawk, nuthatch…” and so on. The sounds have become so familiar to me that I no longer strain to identify them; they register instead like speech.
Other than the birds, we share our space with some yellow-bellied marmots. These pups are always bumbling about, skirting around the rocks. They have been a joy to watch. They’re almost always there when I look out of my window, always hanging around, sunning or nibbling. Spring is the time they're out and about, packing on all the weight they can before the next winter comes along. Just that one task for the next few months. Pack on that mass buddy, make it good. Occasionally, we bring them our carrot tops — that’s what good neighbours do.
Being in full view of all that is alive around me makes me wonder what it means to "know" a place, to feel like a rightful inhabitant, to feel worthy of receiving its hospitality.
I’ve been giving a fair amount of thought to how we venture online in search of connection and belonging, but pay the price of being disconnected from the very place we are situated in. And by being immersed in this buzz — sharing space with birds and marmots and rocks and plants and perhaps more things that I do not see and fail to name — I am struck by the realization that in this world (as opposed to the world online), a sense of belonging is something we are free to claim, not something we have to negotiate. Simply, by being here — by being present — one belongs. Naturally, part of a larger whole, by design; there is already a seat for you at the table. No questions asked, no gatekeeping. No risk of being turned away.
And it is so very wonderful.
🍃🍃🍃
You know, I’m partial to seeing the seasons in life as natural oscillations. A pendulum that swings back and forth. Some may refer to this as the natural polarities of life — think about the relationship between action & reflection, solitude & community. They are fundamentally similar and as natural as the relationship between inhalation and exhalation. One not better than the other, both as necessary. I talk about oscillation because I found myself swinging towards a need for camaraderie recently — an enlarging sense of wanting to feel togetherness, yearning to gather, to connect.
I turned 32 two weeks ago. And this turning outwards again as I celebrated another revolution around the sun has been absolutely exhilarating. I feel like a flower unfurling, reaching for the light.
I’m writing again, publicly, and that is a sign. The last time I felt a longing like that — a longing for community and a desire to express — was a year and a half ago, and on hindsight, I was probably burnt out then. I spent the year and a half recovering, recalibrating and also reckoning. Shedding the names and identities that no longer made sense. Discarding some, shelving the others. Patiently learning how to coax new ones into being. This untethering always leaves me nervous, and the return to somewhat familiar affiliations and affections always bring some relief. The old me is back. But perhaps like the waters that cycle in perpetuity since time immemorial — still the same, and also already different. Perhaps more than the pendulum swinging, the trajectory of the spiral sits better with me.
These steady steps feel good. I know I am getting closer.
Anyhoo, this letter sure is getting long, and it is also getting late. To end off, I’d like to leave you with a line here, some bright words courtesy of David Abram:
“Do we really believe that the human imagination can sustain itself without being startled by other shapes of sentience?”
To nurturing the imagination, and paying better attention [:
Thank you for reading this, it means alot to me to know that there is someone on the receiving end; as much as I write for myself, I also write for you. If you know another kindred soul who may enjoy this, do spread the word. There is much weaving to be done. As usual, I’m all ears — more than happy to hear from you, and what’s on your mind. Till next time!
xx
You are so lucky! I only wish I could have seen the seasons from BC. The summer presses on fast, I cannot keep up with her.
Love reading your letters! Indeed all animal have a soul of their own and we are all miracles of life occupying space in a bigger miracle. Living my alternate life through your posts! Please keep writing and inspiring. Stay safe! ❤️