I am back!

Less than 72 hours ago we got home from our summer adventuring in the Canadian wilderness. There’s so much to say, so much to write. But, also nothing at all. My mind feels completely full, but also blank when trying to write down a single word. I could sequentially write all of the amazing adventures we had this summer. Like the Class 2 rapids that scared me to tears. Or the moose and its calf crossing the river in the early morning light. The millions of mosquitoes we fought off every night. But dumping all of these stories out would not do each of them justice.  Stories don’t always form into stories right away. Sometimes they take months or years to fully mature. Giving a story time to germinate, the elements have time to kiss, become intrinsically linked together in deeper, more complex ways. Allowing them to marinate, the elements blend in ways that far exceeds their individual flavours.

We like things to be instantaneous, including our memories, including the photos of the memories. But, what if we just take a deep breath and let our memories marinate? What if we allowed them to grow into a complex mix of flavourful details and narratives, beyond the confines of the individual ingredients on their own.

Time seems like it’s a hard thing to give. Or more accurately, time is hard to let pass. It feels unproductive. It feels wasteful. It feels like it’s weakening. But when you give time to stories and lessons it helps strengthen their meaning and deepen their multilayered lessons. Let them simmer on the stovetop, stir the pot every so often, grab your favourite wooden spoon, add a little salt, maybe some pepper, and allow it time to become the most robust, flavourful mouthful you’ve ever tasted.

Love, Erika

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