I woke up feeling off.
Not sick, not sad—just heavy. The kind of heaviness that arrives unannounced, like claggy mud clinging to well-walked boots.
The world’s unrest had settled squarely on my shoulders—uninvited. Political divides, wildfires, and wars that never seem to end. All of it far beyond my immediate reach, yet somehow pressing close.
Regardless, I picked the two leads up off the floor and stepped out the door with my trusty walking companions—Ollie and Porter. Experience has taught me that sitting still and moping brings little more than fleeting relief—better to get on with it.
Just past 6:00 a.m.—that soft, in-between hour when the village is half awake—we wandered down Sully toward the covered bridge. But instead of looping back as we often did, we just… kept going.
Crossing the bridge felt like stepping through a silent portal; something in me shifted. We turned left onto Chemin de la Rivière and headed north toward Farrellton.
“Let’s go see Hilary,” I said. The dogs wagged in ready agreement, blissfully unaware of the distance ahead. My kind of companions; always up for an impromptu adventure.
As we followed the river, June flowers began to reveal themselves. They’d been there all along—tucked in ditches, scattered across fields—but with lethargy lifting, I could finally notice.
Such abundance of colour and form.
“Meet fractals,” my awakening brain whispered—those soothing, irregular patterns in nature so rare in human-made spaces. I remembered reading that they soothed the soul and I squatted down for a closer look. It was true. I exhaled again.
Looking up, I noticed a veil draped across the fields and hills. At first, I thought it was fog. It wasn’t. It was smoke, carried on the air from distant wildfires.
Soft, ethereal light filtered through the haze—mesmerizing yet tinged with sadness. Somewhere, a part of our landscape was burning—people fleeing, animals running, lives upended.
And still, I was here, crouched down, surrounded by the fields, the blooms, the bees. The smoke continued to drift, a reminder of loss, yet the beauty around me insisted on being seen, urgent even, in its contrast. I sat still, caught between both truths.
Eventually, nudged by the dogs, I stood, lingered, and then—with quiet purpose—slipped beauty deep into my front pocket and chased chaos to the back. Both would come with me, each in its place.
A few kilometres later, just as light settled in, a familiar figure appeared up ahead—Hilary, her easy, knowing smile coming toward me. Solitude soon gave way to laughter, our steps crunching together on the gravel road as we continued toward the big green bridge.
By the time we reached Hilary’s farm, nearly 22 kilometres from the start, the heaviness was gone. No more mud on my proverbial boots, no weight on my shoulders—both shed on the back roads to Farrellton. What remained was lightness—and a visceral reminder that sometimes, what we most need, is a good long walk.
And if that walk happens to take us to the house of a friend, well—that is a whole other gift.👣🐾🐾
Wandering Wakefield 