solstice

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1. When people say, “Others will find healing in your suffering,” you can either take it as a cop-out answer to what you are going through or you can believe it. But I promise you that if you choose the latter – bigger, more powerful things will come of it.

Remember, if you ever feel like you’re backtracking, it’s not true, because everyday is a choice and some days are harder to choose what is good than others.

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2. It makes sense that I met you in a time where everything is blooming. It makes sense that I met someone who understands that the past has made me who I am, but doesn’t make me who I am. Someone once looked at us and said to me, “This makes sense.” This makes sense.

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3. We used to throw a backyard BBQ every summer solstice, and we would celebrate the longest day of the year laying in the grass; everything smelling like sunscreen and smokey meat and everything tasting like watermelon. The word solstice has always been one of my favourites, because it means the highest point and also the lowest point. Some solstices are shucking oysters by the sea and swimming pool chlorine, and some solstices are Christmas lights and seeing the stars before dinnertime, but all solstices have a way to be celebrated.

peach jackets / medium format

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When I was growing up mom had this peach jacket that I loved so much that when she tried to donate it, I told her she would have to do it with me kicking and screaming the entire time. It’s well-worn and well worn, and I was so well-loved with her in it. Even my dad, who rolls his eyes at my and my mom’s overflowing closets and could care less about the realms of fashion, can pick out that peach jacket from a mile away. To this day, it still lives in my closet, like many other things that I borrowed from her and never returned, but the other day, I left it in dining room. My dad came down the stairs and said to me, “I saw that jacket, and I thought for a second that your mom was back,” and I thought to myself how some days, it feels like we’re still just waiting for her to come home.

HERE / NOW

“I want to stick my net into time and say ‘now’ as men plant flags on the ice and snow and say ‘here’.” – Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.

Last week, to say that, “I am here,” was non-existant. I can’t pinpoint you anything on latitude and longitude or really, pinpoint to you at all what last week was like. I’ve been retyping this post trying to find the right metaphor to hide behind, but there’s no other way to say it: having anxiety is shitty. Being someone who is moved by others and simultaneously being too afraid to get out of bed is shitty. Staying home all day and not being able to find rest is shitty. Pretending not to care about things or saying you’re sick instead of telling people what’s actually going on is shitty. Feeling like you’re going to lose everything for no reason at all is shitty.

But on Thursday, I woke up for the first time in what felt like an eternity with zero anxiety. I texted Grace, “LIFE IS SO BEAUTIFUL,” and got a nose piercing, because why the hell not? To say that, “I am here,” right now, means I want to plant my flags in everything. My camera feels insufficient. My pen and journal are futile devices. My hands can’t hold enough. There are so many moments I just want to make permanent. I’m currently living in the pages of Letters to a Young Poet by Rilke, which was recommended to me by someone who’s taste I always hold close to my heart. He writes: “Believe in a love that has been stored up for you like an inheritance.” And that is what I want to do – store up everything around me that I love like it will waterfall into other things later. I want to believe in a love that has been created in this way for me.

So, with that being said, here are some pieces of my inheritance that I have stored up for the past few months:

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Bowen Island on Film

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1. Shooting with my DSLR while I was on-the-go was the best, but now that I’m home, I’m more than happy to have my film camera back. The theme of coming home has been relearning everything. I’m relearning how film carries a different weight. I need stillness. I need patience. I need to forgo certain shots in order to take better ones. It takes time to reach the end of a roll. It takes time to receive the final product, and time puts a haze over expectations. Film photography is forgetting, and then remembering again.

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2. Last weekend, we spent our days huddled on Bowen Island in a house on a hill owned by hippies with 3 Juno Awards. We went hiking. We played video games (because the boys obviously could not leave their video games behind). We got drunk, told secrets, and laughed a lot. We were quiet. We were loud. We had dance parties.

For me, the week before was one of those heavy-shoulders, runny make-up, eye-bagged weeks. I literally cried over Richard eating my pizza, because that’s how bad things got. And when the weekend hit, I felt like I could breath again. Getting out of Vancouver physically got me out of that headspace for a few moments, and it was like hitting a reset button. Or maybe it was just the snooze button, but whatever it was – the mountains and the sea do that to you. Rest does that to you.

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3. My favourite thing about the weekend was that we all cooked for each other, and the weeks leading up to the trip, everyone bragged about how awesome their meals were going to be. I was talking about the weekend later with Ben and he said, “It was great to see what everyone brings to the table,” and he really meant it literally. I love that when we are called to serve one another, we step up our game and go ham (ok, no more food puns from hereon out).

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4. “Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that new world is born.” – Anais Nin

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5. I have been thinking about ceremonies and traditions a lot, and how many times you have to do something before it becomes a tradition. Everything grows differently, and at this age, I will never have expectations for things to stay stagnant for very long, but tradition is what eases comings and goings. It’s what makes leaving heartbreaking and what makes returning look like open arms. I haven’t been with these friends for very long, but already, there are patterns that make me feel comforted – the way we play the good kind of games; the way certain things are always done in communion, and the way that our traditions tend to be invitational. I hope these are things that always stay important.

To The Ones Who Come And Go

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1. “I am giving this to you, because it embodies one of the most important things you have taught me. It’s a picture of one of the first times we were reunited again, but the polaroid didn’t turn out and I put it in my discarded pile of film. You have shown me that there is beauty in the darkest of places. That was true then, and it is still true now.”

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2. Remember that no matter how many times you come and go, you take a piece of the True North with you in your heart. Point your compass straight always, and branch out so far that when God shakes your limbs, the entire world gets covered with cherry blossoms.