Headwaters Nest

For a while, we renamed it “The Employed Table,” but the retirees didn’t think that was very funny.

“Don’t tell Dad! Don’t tell Bethany! Stop telling everybody in this world!”

I like the idea of being adopted into another family’s fridge Bill of Rights, of being accepted on this most basic level. It says, “What’s mine is yours” and “I trust you not to judge me.”

We perfect our children’s histories through scrapbooks we can show our friends.

Blankets are shared and campfire conviviality fills the room. Winter campout is on – indoors!

From my position, lying in the back seat of the car, it always seemed to take forever to get to my grandparents’ house just off Victoria Park Avenue in Toronto.…

The shortcuts that really interest me are the informal ones that develop naturally through use over time.

As I walked the pathways that had been inaccessible through the winter months, the sounds and smells greeted me like old friends.

It’s true that winter and I were once friends, a long time ago. But then, somehow, we drifted apart…

For a number of years, I donned my corporate attire, got in my car in the dark, slipped a thermal carafe of coffee into the holder, and headed south to the city for work. I didn’t mind the commute, I told myself. In fact I enjoyed it. It was time to think. Time alone. Time to decompress. Then along came baby.

My son learned more first-hand than I could have imagined about plants and animals. His garden creation was inspected daily and watered with care. “It’s magic!” he exclaimed.

As I headed to the hills every weekend for rest, relaxation and Sunday hikes, it finally occurred to me – these hills are my home. I realized it was time to head back upstream.