Just a thought…The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are. [Carl Jung]

This final day of August (the end of Meteorological Summer but with three good weeks of the season to go!) is a good day to look back at our first summer on a tiny spot in the Gulf Islands of BC: what I experienced, what surprised me, and what may even surprise you. Thank you for coming along.

It’s so easy to get caught up in rage scrolling and rolling our eyes so hard we can see our own backsides. It can be hard to keep our balance amidst the hydrant of insanity being spewed and sprayed at us daily, so sometimes – as in last week – without anything positive to say, I just bowed out of blogging. More cowardly than courageous, I felt I had nothing of value to add to the conversation.

But contrary to how that sounds, this has actually been the season of leaning in: pushing myself and walking further than I’ve done daily before, learning what hiking actually is and buying, not just the right shoes, but also ordering boots for when the weather’s not as welcoming in the woods and on rocks, fallen leaves and other obstacles. Using poles for balance on the steep downhill angles. Getting a backpack so my hands are free to save my butt if I need to – things like that.

We still keep late hours of sleeping in and staying up; nighttime walks with Rob, Dottie and Livi have been astounding us with their silence. As we stroll and the pups sniff, we scan the ditches and woods for deer that might surprise all of us. The pups are meant to pee on our walks; I prefer not to, thanks! But the nocturnal highlight has been watching the waxing, waning and full moon. The song “Somewhere Out There” always goes through my head, as well as this from the official Dr. Seuss on Instagram.

Inside our tiny cabin, I’ve set up more framed photos of Lauren than have been on display anywhere since she left us 11 years ago. Not wanting our house or condo to look like an awkward mausoleum for guests, here we can be free to remember her however we want: one from her childhood, one as a bride and a trio of photos taken while living and working in Ottawa, which includes this one.

When people say they think of a loved one every day, I’m not sure it’s usually 16 times in those 16 waking hours, but it is for me. I talk to her almost daily. And sometimes it’s a mournful “Oh, Loo….” More often, though, Rob and I share laughs over her wit: the gift that we give each other to balance out the constant yet now-comfortable vacancy that accompanies every day.

And finally, to our tiny kitchen with its apartment-sized appliances. I laugh when I think back to the gourmet version of the kitchen, its fridge and oven/stove we added to our dream house on Lake Simcoe, the one we designed, had built and was to be our forever home (“If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans”…yeah…). Did I bake there? Rarely. I asked Rob recently why I didn’t take advantage of it and his response, pointed and emphatic, was “You were WORKING.” I was. And when I wasn’t, I was thinking about it, preparing for it. But the few complete meals that came out of that spacious part of the house were memorable and usually included family.

Here, where Rob and I tap a hip or an elbow to move the other out of the way when we’re both in it, the kitchen has become a true hub: from muffins to the pulled pork that’s bubbling today to the cookies and creations that have him wondering who has replaced his wife.

The answer? The real me. The one he wanted all along when he hoped for my retirement one day. I’m still busy in my way (two podcasts, Gracefully and Frankly and Drift sleep stories, will do that) but it’s all love. It’s what I get to do. What I want to do.

That’s what this glorious little spot in the trees, this Little House by the Ferries, has brought me, has brought us. A deep sense of contentment (when I control my news intake), fulfillment and gratitude.

I may not feel it every hour of every day, but the vast silence and stillness of our private wilderness spot invites me to shut up, shut down, and go for a walk or read, or create. Perhaps after ten years, my reWirement is almost complete, and it happened this summer.