Tag Archives: the road less travelled

Coming Home.

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The road unfurls before me like a dove-grey ribbon, divided by dashes of yellow, winding through the trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy of pines, dappling the road ahead. Around each bend, the ocean glimmers against a periwinkle sky as the trees play peek-a-boo in green and blue. All of it a constant reminder of nature’s tender embrace. I inhale the scent of pine needles and feel the cool air on my skin as I drive with the window open.

I am falling in love with island life.

This island, just 14 kilometers long by 4.2 kilometers wide, holds me close. The sea is always near, a comforting presence amidst the lush green landscape. Behind me, as I drive, the road seems to narrow and disappear, like a thought drifting away on a cloud, carrying with it worries and woes, fears and trepidations.

And like the road disappearing into the trees, the daily routines of my former life fade into memory as I fall under the spell of this island in the sea.

There is a rhythm to island life unique to those who live here. I am slowly discovering mine. Even my morning routine – the familiar comfort of the NYTimes puzzles – feels infused with a new sense of peace. I feel my desire to create and contribute returning, my desire for calm rising like the tides, ebbing and flowing with the moon and stars.

I am of the wind. The waves. The trees swaying. The birds soaring along the water’s surface. I am the wild waves crashing. The calm seas rolling. I am the one I’ve always been searching for.

I am coming home to myself, to the me I’ve fought so hard to discover beneath the detritus of life’s tugs and pulls. In my homecoming, I find myself firmly planted in my being, all of me, no matter how fierce the winds around me blow.

In this place there is no need to rush about, to achieve and do more, be more, have more. There is only the sea’s constant urging I let go and be part of the ebb and flow of life unfolding like the road before me.

The Irish Ladies’ Book Club

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The view from Arra Trail Lookout

The unmistakable sound took me back to a time when a blown transformer in our old neighborhood took out the electricity and resulted in a swarm of firetrucks and firefighters descending upon our community.

The blown transformer left every lightbulb in our neighbour’s home shattered while our damage resulted in a new stove and microwave and, as I discovered the next morning when I went to leave our garage, an inoperable garage door opening.

All of that chaos was bad enough, but the crescendo was yet to come. As I pushed up the now manual garage door and readied myself for the day ahead, my fingers became caught between its rolling slats. The pain was excruciating, but with a crucial meeting ahead, I had no choice but to press on. It was as I navigated the back lane that I was introduced to a noise I wouldn’t forget: Whump. Whump. Whump. The cause? A flat tire.

Talk about insult to injury!

I’d just passed Millenium Hill when ‘it’ happened

Fast forward to my drive towards Ballina. A day of exploring the towns and countryside. The winding lanes, the allure of adventure, and yet… there was that all-too-familiar sound again. The cause of this flat was clear: while making room for an oncoming truck on the narrow two-lane road, I hadn’t anticipated the lack of a shoulder, nor the sharpness of the road’s edge.

I pulled over to a grassy stretch of access road leading to a private driveway, got out and surveyed the damage.

Front tire Flat.

Mood. Deflated.

Tears. Imminent.

Soon, a good Samaritan stopped and, together, we discovered another unexpected twist: my trunk, or rather, “boot”, lacked both a spare tire and a jack.

The ensuing half hour felt like a comedy of errors.

The start of the laneway where I pulled over.

I am on the phone connecting with the emergency number provided by the car rental agency. The good Samaritan is surveying my flat tire. I finally reach someone on the phone who can help me. The good Sarmaritan admits defeat and drives off. Still standing on the roadside, phone in hand, a young woman drives up and pulls into the lane. She gets out of her car, asks if I’m okay – I am but I’m not really. I want to cry. I’m struggling to keep it all together. She lets me know she’s just driving down the lane to her parents’ home and should roadside assistance be too long, I should walk down the lane and join them for a cup of tea.

She drives off. I am still on the phone when, five minutes later, her father walks up the lane to see if he can help.

Now, picture this…

I am kneeling on the side of the road, squinting at the tire, phone in hand, attempting to discern the tire size. He realizes the issue, kneels down beside me in his freshly pressed khaki pants, loafers and green jacket over a rust colour sweater — very Irish country gentleman looking. The two of us begin to call out numbers, which, given neither of us have our reading glasses with us, is quite the struggle. Eventually, after tracing a number with my fingers, (I thought was a ‘9’) and letting the woman on the phone know it was actually a 3, she confirms she has all the information she needs, she promises to have someone there in about an hour.

“That’s an Irish hour,” the man tells me before inviting me to their home where his wife is hosting her book club and has made a wonderful cake. “You can enjoy it with your cup of tea,” he tells me with a kind smile..

I take him up on the offer. Who wouldn’t want to share tea and cake with an Irish Ladies’ Book Club in a beautiful home on the shores of Lough Derg?

Ten minutes later, when I told the gathered ladies about my flat and lack of devices to fix it, one of them piped up. “Wasn’t there a cannister in the boot? They put those there to inflate your tire enough to get you to a garage.”

Seriously?

I’d noticed the cannister when the first stranger and I inspected the boot. The only consolation was, he didn’t know what it was for either.

But seriously. I think my way worked better.

Mr. Baggins. My morning writing companion.

I could never have scripted this day – the unexpected turns, the chance encounters, and the invaluable lessons. By the end of it, not only was my tire repaired, but my belief reaffirmed: while detours might lead us astray, they also pave the way for the most memorable journeys.

Lesson Learned: Expect the unexpected and you’ll never be disappointed.

Life will always throw curveballs our way, often when least expected. Being prepared is key, but it’s also essential to embrace the unexpected with an open heart. You never know, your unplanned detour might just lead to your most cherished memory.

The Road Less Travelled: Adventures in YYC

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IMG_7313

The city core is filled with quiet spaces that invite walkers by to pause, catch their breath and sit awhile. In the west end of downtown there’s Poetic Corner, a tiny oasis of zen-like space designed to give passers-by pause to contemplate the giant arachnid sculptures perched on the stone steps.

On 7th Avenue, there’s the park by the NOVA building, complete with meandering streams and streaming waterfalls.

Yesterday, while walking to a meeting in the late afternoon, I passed the park at the MacDougall Centre, the southern offices of the Premier and found myself entranced by the sounds of the tumbling waterfalls, the firs whispering in the breeze and the birds chirping in their branches. I’ve passed this park many times and never taken the time to discover it. I’ve always been on my way to somewhere, a meeting, a lunch date, back to the office. I’ve always had a reason to hurry by.

It is the nature of being at home in the city.

While sitting with a couple of girlfriends on Monday sharing lunch at a local pub, I glanced out the window beside us and spied a Magpie hopping along the roof of an SUV parked beside the building.

“Isn’t that interesting,” I commented to my friends. “I see that Magpie and my mind immediately started to discount its presence.”

Magpies are everywhere in Calgary. They squawk and taunt from tree tops and where ever else they’re perched. They hop along lawns, willing errant squirrels and other rodents to chase them. In the sunlight, their feathers glimmer with pearlescent hues of green and blue and aqua. But mostly they’re considered a nuisance.
What struck me as interesting though was how watching that bird on the rooftop immediately took me back in time to a vacation in New Zealand. We’d gone for a month’s ski trip only to discover the snow was awful. So instead, we toured about the south island. One day, sitting in a pub chatting with my then husband and some other friends we’d met along the way, I spied a Kia hopping along the roof of a vehicle parked outside.

I thought the bird was cute. His antics amusing.

He’s a nuisance, our friends said.

I laughed and went outside to take his photo.

It’s all in our perspective.

Sitting in that pub in New Zealand, everything looked fresh and new. Everything was interesting. Nothing looked like a nuisance.

Sitting in a pub in Calgary, I see the world through my eyes accustomed to the everyday. Magpies are nuisances. Parks I pass everyday are just that. Everyday spaces I don’t have time to explore.

ThIMG_7316anks to the awareness gained through my observations of that Magpie, I took the time yesterday to stay awhile in the park at MacDougall Centre. I walked beneath the firs, skipped across the blocks of concrete that cross the stream at the top of the waterfall and sat on a bench in the late afternoon sun soaking in the tranquility of my surroundings, even as the city traffic scurried by on the avenues bordering either side of the park.

I didn’t hear them.

I was immersed in the beauty and wonder of the space that surrounded and embraced me. The space I was inhabiting in that moment.

I still made my meeting on time. The difference was, I carried with me the tranquility of that moment in time, when I stopped to take the road less travelled and savoured the world around me.

Or, in the words that end Robert Frost’s iconic poem, The Road Not Taken,
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Get off the path well-travelled

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They are already on the platform waiting for the C-train when I arrive.

He is maybe 6, 7 years old. Ninja backpack on his back. School is waiting. He’s excited to get there.

She is grandmotherly. Red coat. Black boots. Gloves. Matching purse. Her hair carefully coiffed, the metallic blonde of the dye fading at the roots.

He pulls his blue wool toque down around his ears, the rim just covering his eyebrows.

She pulls it back. Straightens it high against his brow.

He pulls it back down.

She gently slaps his hands away. Tells him it looks ridiculous like that and tugs it back into place. The place where she wants it to be.

His smile fades.

She turns to look for the train.

He pulls his toque back down to cover his eyebrows.

She turns back to look at him. Notices what he’s done. Tells him to stop being a nuisance. Tugs firmly and pulls his hat back into place. She smiles at him and says, “There. That’s better. Now leave it alone.”

His shoulders rise up and collapse downward in one fluid movement. He sighs. His hands swing by his side. He doesn’t touch his toque.

It is just a moment in time. A tiny vignette of a grandmother taking her grandson to school. Doing what she believes is her best. The right thing. The best thing she can do to prepare him for his day, and possibly teach him a lesson for life.

I wonder what message he got?

It wasn’t that her looks at him weren’t loving. They were.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have his best interests at heart. She did. I’m sure she loves her grandson to pieces. I’m sure she feels he was being a nuisance. That he needs to obey her, do what she says because that’s the only way he’s going to make it safely to school. If she let him wear his hat the way he wants, might he risk jumping the tracks? Might it lead to his mis-behaving in class, not following the rules, not doing what his teacher says?

You’ve got to obey your elders, I hear her saying in my head. Don’t be a nuisance.

And underneath the obvious concern for his well-being, what other messages were at play?

Don’t do it your way. Don’t colour outside the lines. Don’t think for yourself. You don’t count. You don’t matter. You don’t have the right to … speak up, do it differently, be individual. You don’t have a say. You don’t have a voice.

And for her what fears was she acting out? Did she need to keep control of every little detail so she could feel comforted by what she knows? Did she fear letting him have his way on this small thing would lead to his taking his own path on bigger things? Did she fear the path less travelled?

I don’t know what was going on in their minds or lives, but for me, the play enacted by this duo spoke deeply to my heart. It spoke deeply to that place within me where I want each and every one of us to honour the individual, to celebrate the different, to praise the uniqueness of our being who we are without fearing who we are is not enough.

It spoke deeply to that place within me where I feel powerless to awaken others to the importance of every small act we take with a child. That place where I want to go back and erase all the little things I did when my daughters were small that maybe didn’t celebrate the miracle of their lives because I was too busy to stop and see the gifts of their uniqueness, or too accustomed to taking the path I knew than to see there was a path less travelled that would awaken brilliance in our everyday lives.

It was a small moment with big ripples. A moment where I saw that for us to stop abuse, for us to end violence, for us to free children from living lives of desperation, we need to awaken to living fiercely in Love with this moment right now. We need to step into our power to do every small thing with love and compassion at the heart of every breath we take so that we no longer choose the path well-travelled and step fearlessly onto the path of Love.