I also needed to feel alive again.
I needed to feel like me.
I needed to process what the hell just happened.
I needed to hold on to something.
I needed to let go.
I needed to remember why I'm out here, why I'm 5,000 km from family, and why that's okay.
When tragedy strikes, so does home sickness I discovered.
Hard. Fast.
A Jackie Chan fist to the face kind of strike.
And another to the gut for good measure.
I've been feeling lost and separate and really far away lately.
I want to be able to pop by.
I want to show up on a door step with two bricks and a pane of glass and break shit with my Aunt.
I want to wrap myself in nephews and trains and cars and simple play.
I want to snuggle with my niece, her head tucked in between my neck and my chin. And just breathe.
I want to have a beer with my brother on a Tuesday night.
I want to go for dinner with mom.
I want to hang out at the farm and see the stars shine at night and hear the wind rustle through the crops and just be still.
"My heart is here."
That's what I tell people and have told people for the past 5 years of Vancouver.
I live here because my heart is here.
I belong here.
The west coast is an extension of my own soul.
It's absolutely, unequivocally true -- 99% of the time.
But today, yesterday, last week, last month, the other 1% crept in.
I want to be anywhere else but here.
I want to be cosy with the people who share my DNA.
I'm certifiably homesick.
Utterly wistful.
I miss Uncle Phil.
I don't want to ever lose any one again – especially without telling them that they matter.
I don't want to be far away when I need to be close.
I'm struggling with it.
Really struggling.
Like throw-in-the-towel kind of struggling.
Ready to quit kind of struggling.
The ugly kind.
The weak kind.
The "I'm so going to regret this" kind.
My moment of weakness is now.
So I laced up.
Because for the last 15 or so years, I've always found that clarity is just a pair of beaten runners and an elevated heartbeat away.
I brought Harley with me.
A loyal sidekick who's too old to run consistently now but who is never unhappy for an opportunity to follow a trail with me.
Immediately upon opening the car door, Harley knew we were in Deep Cove.
Her eyes lit up. Her tail wagged.
She had thought we were heading home from work.
She knows that Deep Cover means running, sniffing, playing – oh my!
And probably a dog treat from the cashier at Honey's too.
Her sweet surprise and instant happiness immediately set my spirits soaring.
We hit the trail with fires in our bellies.
Our routine has been anything but routine for the past two months.
The first step up over roots and dirt and low-lying ferns provided a warm deja vu of life pre-chaos.
We've missed this.
I've missed it.
It felt familiar. And I let out a huge sigh.
And the anvil on my chest rose. And my eyes opened wide. And my heart bled. And I was sad and relieved and mad and happy all at the same time. I felt it all. And I felt alive because of it.
This trail is relatively easy. It's short. Nice and windy. Easy to follow. Lovely to run. Nice to saunter in.
At almost ten, Harley's days of running this trail full tilt are over. But, boy, does she give it her all.We hit the ground hard for the first 20 minutes – over bridges, around tree trunks, through mud. Her tongue wagged wildly. My heart beat proudly. My mind quieted with every step.
It felt good.
Like home.
The 30-degree weather beneath the canopy eventually got the best of my big brown pal and she spent the remainder of the hike/run stopping and lying down in every bit of water she could find.
It made for a choppy but blissful run/walk/experience.
"She's got the right idea!" said fellow hikers as I sat on the sidelines waiting for her to cool off and be ready to run again.
I smiled and nodded. She DID have the right idea.
Sometimes, no matter how much you want to go full speed ahead, it's better to stop and take a breather.
I don't do that enough, I thought.
Actually, I don't do it ever.
Soak it all in. Stay cool. And come back swinging.
Yes, Harley has had it right all along.
We eventually hit Quarry Rock and the lookout.
I've been here a hundred times. I've sat on this cliff and had conversations with friends, listened to Kate Nash on iTunes, picnicked on sliced apples and peanut butter, snapped pictures of strangers, and stroked Harley methodically.
It's a good little jaunt for us and one of my favourite trails to run. The view defines peace and freedom and tranquility and all om-ish things.
But it was a little different this time.
Harley and I panted.
Walked to the edge of the rock.
And sat.
And I tried to think but I thought of nothing.
I really should think, I thought (how's that for irony?).But my mind was blank. It was clear. It was on hiatus.
I just was.
And everything was right in the world.
Not good and happy and perfect. Not at all.
But it was right.
Things were in order.
Even the things I've been mad about and sad about and fretting about. Everything was in order.
I sent pictures to Mom, Dad, Trev.
I felt close to home again.
And at home.
When the mosquitos started biting away at our bliss, Harley and I took off back toward the car.
Her Run-Walk-Drink-LieDown relay continued all the way back.
Normally, I'd be rushing her to run faster. Keep up! Let's go!
But this time, it felt right just to take our time, enjoy the trail and the sunshine and the texture of bark on poplars and the oddity of banana slugs crossing the path. It felt right to just be there with no agenda.
Be present.
Breathe a little.
Forget about going back to work, meeting deadlines, mending hearts, easing pain, memorizing the presentation, cash flow, etc... and just be.
{b-r-e-a-t-h-e}
The weight was lifting.
[b-r-e-a-t-h-e}
It will be okay.
{b-r-e-a-t-h-e)
It's nice to have mother nature underfoot again.
She's always got my back.
