Somehow 12 years have passed. Somehow we stayed the same, changed beyond recognition, turned into other people, but still remain connected. Somehow we've made a family; lost some family, cultivated a fine boy and two delightful cats. Somehow we've grown gardens, harvested lemons, wiped bugs off of leaves and clipped herbs from pots with earnestness. Somehow you've learned to eat salad, I've learned to make supper, you've learned to make eye contact, I've learned to live with someone. Somehow 12 years have passed over two countries, three cultures, many hours in airplanes, many more on the phone. The actual real time spent together is much less than 12 of course, but maybe that's not the point.
We've weathered seasons, we've exposed our faith that the freshness of spring will return, we’ve held the faith that the darkness of winter isn’t permanent. We know each other enough now to expect the next 12 years to be easier.
The routine is ingrained now. I make the food, you wash the dishes; I wash the clothes, you fold the fitted sheets. When I am feverish, you attempt to make a tea and fetch the boy without hesitation. I knit the hats, you rule Black Rock City, I feed the cats, they sleep on you. Somehow it works. And then it doesn't. That isn't permanent either.
When we are seniors on Hornby Island sitting in silence overlooking the boats and the harbor listening to the clink clink ding of masts (if I can still hear that sound); I hope the presence of you still calms me as it does today. Still keeps me feeling tethered as it did on day one. Twelve years ago, or 14 really, I was a leaf caught in a little whirlwind swept up and twirling across the country. Alone and directionless - no, forward was my direction. I was moving forward, but also swirling up and over the country, only touching down to read books, write poems and look outside. Violet was my anchor, the prairies grounded my heart.
Now I have roots, a flag, a steady course. That sound I hear is my own sail against my mast, slack and waiting to be hoisted together. Now we are a team, we three. You are my tether, Violet watches from afar. My heart lives in Milo and the view from the deck on our island. Twelve years ago a distant dream too sacred to believe it could ever be true.
Somehow we’ve taken the wild and tamed it into something beautiful, no less precious. Somehow the silence speaks volumes to what is possible and will continue to rise and fall, freeze and melt, sprout and harvest for at least another 1200 years.
Inspired by Alison Pick - "Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"