Restore: Finding My Way Back to Myself

When I chose Restore as the third part of my August rhythm — Rest, Notice, Restore, Renew — I thought I understood what it meant. Then the week arrived and I found myself asking a surprisingly difficult question.

Restore what? And how?

My first thought was energy. Surely restoration means doing things that give me my energy back. But when I looked at it that way, the list was pretty short. Eating helps. Sleeping helps. Beyond that, most of the things I enjoy either use energy or simply give my brain a rest for a while. Reading doesn't magically refill the tank. Neither does playing a game, walking through a garden or working on my field journal.

Maybe I had been asking the wrong question.

When life knocks me out of my usual rhythm, it can take me a week or two to recover. Calgary was wonderful, but it was also a very full week. I walked more than usual, saw new things every day, took hundreds of photographs and filled my head with experiences I wanted to remember. When it was over, I didn't go directly home. I went back to Toronto with Rob.

It was nice to stop moving quite so much and begin getting some of my normal back.

Some of that was very ordinary. There was shopping to do. In Toronto it was coffee and some of the things they don't keep at Rob's house. When I finally returned to Peterborough, it was groceries for the week. Necessities, really, but there is something reassuring about buying groceries for the coming week. It means I am back in my own life and preparing to live it again.

Staying at Rob's can be a challenge sometimes. He lives with his mother and brother, so there are always other people and other people's things around. But his brother has created a beautiful garden in the backyard, and it has become a refuge for me. In the morning I could take my coffee and whatever I was having for breakfast outside to the gazebo, sit among the flowers and listen to the sounds of the garden. Even the June bugs had their own song.

At home in Peterborough, there isn't a gazebo waiting for me. I open my window instead. I sit at my desk with breakfast and coffee and listen to whatever is happening outside. They aren't the same morning, but I realized they do the same thing for me. They give me a quiet place to begin the day before I ask anything more of myself.

There is also a little sitting room at Rob's that I have more or less claimed as my sanctuary. It has a loveseat and a table, although I have to overlook the computer equipment scattered everywhere. I did most of my work there. I read there. I relaxed there. For a while it became an almost-home, a place where I could settle into some of the things I normally do.

I found other almost-home things too. Walking through the garden reminded me of my usual turns around my building and my occasional visits to the garden nearby. Reading and playing my games brought back familiar parts of my routine. Working on the pages for my Calgary field journal let me return to the adventure, but this time without all the physical effort. I could revisit what I had seen, choose photographs, remember details and enjoy the trip again in an entirely different way.

 

Eventually, though, I came home.

There were little moments when I could feel my life clicking back into place. Walking around my building on the new pavement felt surprisingly good. Touching base with my son felt right. Spending time with Ness and Dean after Aquafit felt familiar. Even talking with the Outsiders felt like a return to something I recognized. Rob lives in a suburban neighbourhood that actively discourages people from hanging around outside. Here, people stop and talk.

Going back to Aquafit felt almost like coming home.

Then this morning I made my bed.

It is such a silly little thing. I make my bed every day, so there is nothing particularly noteworthy about it. Except this morning there was. I looked at it and thought, yeah, my routines are back in place. This is home.

My own room. My own mess. My own window. My own sounds. Even my fan at night matters. Rob has a fan too, but it doesn't sound like mine. Mine drowns out the world in exactly the way I am accustomed to, and apparently even that tiny familiar sound helps restore my equilibrium.

I think that's what I was missing when I kept trying to figure out how to restore my energy.

Restoration, at least for me, isn't necessarily about getting energy back. Sometimes it is the gradual return of the things that make my life recognizable to me. A cup of coffee in a quiet place. A book. A familiar walk. Making something. Seeing my family. Going to Aquafit. Making the bed. Hearing the right fan when I close my eyes at night.

Travel disrupts those things, and that's part of the adventure. I don't want every day away from home to look exactly like a day at home. But apparently I do need some familiar threads running through my days, even when I'm somewhere else. And when I return, I need time to pick those threads back up.

Maybe that is why restoration happens so slowly for me. I don't come home, get a good night's sleep and wake up restored. I come back a little at a time.

One routine. One person. One familiar sound. One ordinary thing after another.

Until one morning I make the bed, look around and realize:

There I am.

 

Notice: Paying attention to the little things

I thought noticing meant paying closer attention. Maybe it also means letting myself be surprised.

I am good at seeing things most people ignore. I learned early in my life to be aware and pay attention, not because of any abuse or trauma, but because I was very clumsy. Over the years I have managed to get better at not tripping over my own feet when something catches my eye, although apparently there are still limits.

Noticing starts with seeing. A black-and-white bird I don't recognize. A tiny stream almost buried under greenery and hidden by stone. Those are the kinds of things I see. They aren't necessarily important and I don't have to do anything with them. Something catches my attention and, instead of immediately moving on, I stop and look.

I have no lesson for you this week, only a suggestion. Look out your nearest window and slowly look up, down and sideways. Stop when something draws your attention and really look at it. This isn't a quick scan but a slow, deliberate look. Or, if you can, step outside and walk 100 yards in any direction and do the same thing. The point is simply to see what you might normally skip over. That is noticing.

Noticing doesn't have to be directed outward. I am tired today, and that is another way to notice. Turn the same attention toward yourself. Pay attention to the aches and pains, the feel of the fabric against your skin, what feels good and what feels bad. Notice even the things you generally don't pay attention to. Give yourself the same slow attention you just gave the world outside your window.

Calgary gave me plenty of opportunities to practice this. I went to Reader Rock Garden expecting a rock garden laid out on relatively level ground, only to discover that the rocks were actually steps and the garden was vertical. It was a beautiful place, emphasis on beautiful, but definitely not what I expected. I probably wouldn't have seen nearly as much of it if I hadn't been determined to reach the café, which, as it happens, sits about halfway up what felt very much like a rock mountain.

The next day I went to the Calgary Central Library expecting an uninspiring building full of books and things. Instead, I found somewhere I could have explored for hours. Even the building surprised me, with its shape inspired by a Chinook cloud. I was particularly drawn to the fourth floor, with its Indigenous teachings and books, Canadian and world history, and inviting places to sit and read. Did I mention that this place was huge?

Maybe that is what I am learning about noticing. It isn't about searching for something extraordinary. It is about giving the ordinary enough time to become interesting. Expectation tells us what we think we're going to see. Noticing gives what is actually there a chance to surprise us. 

What Rest Looked Like This Week

When I chose Rest as the focus for the first week of August, I imagined a slower week. I imagined staying late in bed, reading, watching TV, all the things that come to mind when you think of rest. That didn't happen.

Instead, I've spent the week getting ready for Calgary. There have been lists to make, things to pack, appointments to remember, laundry to finish, journal pages to complete, and all the ordinary chores that somehow multiply whenever you're about to leave home.

Then there's the housework. Dishes, sweeping, and all those little jobs I usually put off. I hate housework, but I know I'll appreciate coming home to a clean apartment instead of having to deal with it after a week away.

A few days earlier there was also our road trip back to Buckhorn. It wasn't physically restful, but it settled something in me that I didn't know still needed settling. Sometimes the heart rests before the body does.

In many ways the trip was restful, albeit full of memories. Along with the memories came peace in seeing things from my growing-up years that remain true in spirit, like Sandy Lake and Cody Inn. They are cherished memories, and I think that gives peace of mind and, in its own way, rest.

This week reminded me that rest isn't always measured by how many hours you spend in a chair. Sometimes it's measured by how little you're rushing inside your own head.

There were moments.

Standing by the lazy river and allowing its current to sweep away some of my fatigue. The sound of rushing water eases my mind and lets it rest for a little while.

Spending time with my girls and the important men in their lives. I was spending time with loved ones, and that was another reason the day felt restful.

Getting a stack of photos I thought were long gone, including some really old ones from my Dad's album. Looking through them reminded me just how many wonderful places I've been and experiences I've had. They are cherished memories, and I think that gives peace of mind and, in its own way, rest.

Planning and dreaming about spending four days in Calgary, free to explore anything I want without any of the pressures I feel here at home.

Writing in my journal and sharing scrapbook pages of the memories I've collected, hoping they'll mean something to whoever looks at them after I'm gone, instead of simply checking another task off the list. Though there was some of that too.

None of those moments lasted very long, but each one let me breathe a little easier. They let my mind relax and experience what was going on around me without worry or fear.

I've spent much of this year learning that I don't have to earn rest by exhausting myself first. I'm still not very good at believing it, especially before a trip when there always seems to be one more thing that needs doing. But I'm getting better at noticing the small pauses hidden inside busy days. Maybe that's what rest was this week.

Calgary will have its own adventures, its own discoveries, and probably its own tired evenings. I'm hoping I'll find a few more quiet moments there too.

For now, my version of rest is knowing that the preparations are almost finished. Soon, it will be time to go.

Songs of the Month

I've been trying to write this post for two days, but the words just wouldn't come. This was supposed to be a soundtrack, like those lists people create on Spotify, but there were no songs. At least, not in the way I first imagined.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized July did have a soundtrack. It just wasn't made of music. It was made of birds singing outside my window, cicadas serenading us on the hottest days, conversations that didn't really matter but somehow did, pages turning in my journal, footsteps on my walk to Aquafit, and more than one night when my brain absolutely refused to shut up.

Maybe those are the songs we carry with us anyway.

 
Looking back on a month always makes it seem much neater than it felt while I was living it. July wasn't neat at all. It kept changing direction. Just when I thought I knew what I was doing, something else would catch my attention and carry me somewhere I hadn't expected to go.

Sometimes it was creativity, or what I usually call getting side-tracked. I could lose hours moving things around on a journal page or trying one more idea for the blog simply because I wanted to see if it would work. Other days it was memories. Buckhorn, my hometown, kept calling me back this month and, once I started opening those doors, I found myself remembering things I hadn't thought about in years.

I needed those memories because for a long time I've thought of my childhood as one long sad story. This month reminded me it never was. The difficult memories are still there and always will be, but they no longer stand alone. Somewhere between remembering the bad stuff were blueberry fields, corn roasts, horses on lead reins, finding treasures at the dump, and watching bears from the safety of the car. I'd forgotten there was joy living beside the sorrow.

It was also a month that challenged me both physically and mentally. I spent time in the emergency room with a urinary tract infection, worried more than once about the way fatigue seemed to settle into my bones, and found myself wondering whether depression was quietly trying to make its way back into my life. None of those things were part of the plan, but then again, life rarely asks permission before rewriting the schedule.

Looking back now, those aren't the moments that stayed with me the most.

I remember writing Good Neighbours after witnessing a stranger being treated with cruelty. I remember finally settling into a new look for the blog after trying more templates than I care to admit. I remember giving myself Permission to Play and discovering that curiosity still has a way of leading me somewhere worthwhile.

Without meaning to, July kept circling around the same ideas. Curiosity. Kindness. Memory. Permission. I never set out to write about those things, but they kept appearing until I stopped fighting them and started paying attention.

Maybe that's all any of us are really doing—learning to notice the things that quietly make up a life. The birds outside the window become part of the morning, the walk to the Y becomes time to think, conversations stay with us longer than we expect, and old memories return when they're finally ready to be heard. Even the difficult days have something to say if we're willing to listen.

Now July is coming to an end, and August is waiting just around the corner.

I've already given August its own theme: Rest & Reset. It feels like exactly what I need because my year doesn't begin in January. It begins in October, around my birthday, and that makes August and September something different. They're not really the end of one year or the beginning of another. They're the quiet space in between, where I can catch my breath before I start dreaming about what comes next.

The planner in me knows September will be filled with ideas for the year ahead, and the creative part of me is already peeking around the corner to see what's waiting. But August doesn't have to carry any of that. It can simply be what it needs to be: a chance to rest, to notice, to restore, and to begin again a little more gently than before.

Before I can start planning another year, I need to rest and review. I want to think about what is working and what isn't, what I need instead of what I simply want, and allow things to settle into whatever new shape they are meant to take. Most of all, I want to look honestly at who I was last October and who I have become along the way.

Not every season of life needs to be filled with big moments. Sometimes the quieter seasons are the ones that help us hear ourselves again.

I think that's reason enough to slow down for a while.

Permission to Play

Lately I've been thinking a lot about permission.

Not the kind someone else gives us. The kind we give ourselves.

Somewhere along the way many of us seem to decide that play belongs to children. We tell ourselves that if we're going to spend time creating something it should have a purpose. It should be useful or productive. We quietly stop doing things simply because they make us happy.

I think that's a shame.

 This month my journal theme is Freedom and Play, but somewhere during the past couple of weeks I realized those words weren't really about playing at all. They were about permission. Permission to follow my curiosity. Permission to try something without knowing where it might lead. Permission to spend an afternoon looking through old photographs simply because one memory led to another.

As it turns out, that permission led me somewhere I never expected.

Like most adults, I have a day planner. Over the years though, mine has become much more than that. It's part planner, part scrapbook, part commonplace book and part memory keeper. It still keeps my appointments, but it also holds drawings, photographs, quotes and little pieces of everyday life. Somewhere along the way it stopped being just a planner and became a record of how I live.

Each month I choose a theme to guide the pages I create and, if I'm paying attention, those themes usually end up teaching me something. This month has been no different.

One of the projects I've been working on is what I've been calling a memory reclamation project. With the help of ChatGPT I've been slowly recreating my parents' home from memory. They bought the house in September of 1976 and lived there for thirty years. It was the centre of birthdays, Christmases, ordinary Tuesday afternoons and countless family memories. I wanted to preserve those memories for my children, my grandchildren and maybe one day my great-grandchildren.

To do that I had to begin looking through old photographs again. Some were digital files I'd forgotten I even had, while others were old paper prints tucked away for years. At first I was looking for details of the house. Was the porch there yet? Where exactly was the ramp? What did the front yard really look like?

Somewhere along the way I realized I wasn't looking at the house anymore. I was looking at the people who made it home. Every photograph seemed to remind me of another story, another family gathering, another ordinary day that at the time didn't seem important. Funny how twenty-five years later those ordinary moments are often the ones that matter the most.

 It also made me realize just how much my parents shaped the person I became. They were very different people, but somehow both of them still live in the choices I make today.

My dad was warm, generous and always willing to lend a hand. If someone needed help, he simply helped. I remember one day after our neighbours had organized a benefit dance to help my parents build a wheelchair ramp. Dad looked around the room and quietly said, "These are good neighbours." I don't think he realized it at the time, but he had just given me one of the principles I've tried to live by ever since. Being a good neighbour isn't something you talk about. It's something you do.

Mom was very different. She came from a much harder life, one no child should ever have to experience. She carried those experiences with her for the rest of her life, but she also taught me determination. She just kept going because there wasn't another choice.

Looking back now, I can see pieces of both of them in me. I inherited Dad's open heart and Mom's stubborn streak. Dad taught me to look outward when someone needed help. Mom taught me to keep going when life became difficult. Between the two of them they shaped far more of my life than I ever realized.

There were moments this week that reminded me just how deeply those lessons still guide my life. I found myself stepping into situations because I couldn't stand by while someone else was being hurt, whether physically or emotionally. I didn't stop to think about it. I simply acted, and it wasn't until later that I understood where that instinct had come from.

If I hadn't had these creative projects to occupy my hands and my mind this week, I suspect my depression would have overwhelmed me.

From the outside it probably looked like I was collecting pieces of an old house. What I was really collecting were pieces of my own story. I wasn't just rebuilding a house. I was remembering what it felt like to live there: the laughter, the ordinary days, the people coming and going, and all the little moments I'd almost forgotten. More importantly, I was beginning to understand why some of the values I hold so tightly matter so much to me.

I started this month thinking Freedom and Play meant giving myself permission to be creative. I think I was wrong. It wasn't really about play at all. It was about giving myself permission. Permission to follow my curiosity, permission to spend time on something that didn't have to accomplish anything, permission to remember and, maybe most importantly, permission to understand myself a little better.

Maybe that's what play has become for me. Not something children eventually outgrow, but a way of giving myself permission to follow my curiosity wherever it leads. This time it led me back to my parents, back to my own story and back to a better understanding of the person I've become.

If you keep a journal, sketchbook, scrapbook or even a notebook filled with random thoughts, don't worry about whether it is artistic enough or useful enough.

Give yourself permission.

You never know where it might lead.

Good Neighbours

There are moments in our lives that don't seem especially important at the time. They happen, we move on, and years later we suddenly realize they helped shape the adults we became.

One of those moments happened to me when I was sixteen.

It began with something my dad said. At the time I didn't understand what he meant, but his words sank deep into my unconscious and quietly became part of the person I am today.

My mother had recently become confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. Overnight everything changed for our family. There were extra expenses, uncertainty, and no clear idea of what the future would look like. Our little village decided to hold a benefit dance to help Mom and Dad get through those first difficult months while they figured things out.

I don't remember much about the dance itself. I couldn't tell you what music was playing or even who was there. What I do remember is something my dad said. He looked around the hall and quietly said, "These are good neighbours."

At the time I didn't understand what he meant. I knew people had come to help us, but I didn't really see anything beyond that. They were just people from our village.

I've thought about those words off and on over the years, and it took me a long time to understand what Dad was trying to tell me.

I think he meant that being a good neighbour has very little to do with living next door to someone. It's about seeing that someone needs help and doing what you can. You don't stop to ask what's in it for you. You don't keep score. You don't expect to be paid back. You simply do what you can because someone needs a hand.

The only thing you hope is that if life ever turns against you, someone else will help you the same way. Not because they owe you anything, but because that's what good neighbours do.

Looking back now, I think that's why those words became tied to the Golden Rule in my mind: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Not because you expect them to do it, but because if you ever find yourself in need, you hope someone else has learned the same lesson.

That simple idea has stayed with me all my life. The two thoughts became almost inseparable in my mind, and together they became one of the guiding principles of my life.

I haven't always been able to help in big ways. Sometimes my health gets in the way. Sometimes all I can offer is a listening ear, a kind word, or something as simple as a drink of water on a hot day. I don't think the size of the kindness matters nearly as much as the willingness to give it without expecting anything in return.

Maybe the world has changed since then, or maybe I've simply noticed it more as I've gotten older, but sometimes it feels like we've forgotten what it means to be neighbours. We seem quicker to judge than to help, quicker to argue than to understand, and quicker to persecute than to offer a helping hand. I hope I'm wrong.

I hope there are still far more good neighbours than we hear about. After all, kindness has never been very good at making headlines. It usually happens quietly, when no one is watching. That's the point of kindness, isn't it? You do what's right because it's the right thing to do, not because anyone is watching or because you expect something in return.

Looking back now, I realize Dad wasn't just talking about the people who came to that dance. Without knowing it, he was showing me the kind of person he hoped I would become, and I've carried that lesson with me ever since.

I still believe being a good neighbour is one of the best things a person can be.

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help. If that kindness comes back one day, that's a blessing. If it doesn't, it was still the right thing to do. 

 

The Principle I Learned

A good neighbour helps because someone needs help.

• Be kind.

• Be honest.

• Listen before judging.

• Help when you can.

• Expect nothing in return.

• Appreciate the people around you.

• Forgive whenever possible.

• Respect our differences.

• Share what you have.

• Leave the world a little better than you found it.

 

Following Curiosity

Most of my walks naturally fit this month's theme without me trying to make them fit. I don't set out thinking, "I need material for the blog." I simply go for a wander or two, and the story appears.

When I looked back over the week, I realized the story wasn't really about the places I visited. I think it's about what an adventure has become for me. It isn't going to BC or Ottawa. Those were the kinds of experiences I thought of as adventures.

 These days, adventure has taken on a different meaning. It might be following my curiosity down an unfamiliar street, noticing something I'd probably walked past for years, checking on a photography project, or realizing that morning glories are appearing all over the city.

Morning glories became part of a project I hadn't expected to begin. At first they were simply beautiful flowers climbing the trees and covering the raspberry bed in the back corner of the garden. I watched them slowly smother the raspberry canes in one corner until nothing else could grow there. That's when I learned that, although beautiful, they can also overwhelm everything around them. While out on one of my walks, I came across a hedge completely covered in morning glory vines and couldn't help wondering if the same thing would happen there. I've started photographing that hedge every couple of weeks to see how the story unfolds.

 Those photographs are becoming a pictorial essay I'm calling Deadly Beauty. I never planned that project. It grew out of simply paying attention.

The same thing happened with a couple of robins. I didn't go looking for them; they found me. Anyone who has ever tried photographing robins knows they rarely stay in one place for more than a few seconds. These two seemed perfectly content to let me stand there taking photographs until I had several I was genuinely happy with. Those photographs have already become more than pictures. They've inspired a journal page and even a writing prompt. Once again, curiosity quietly opened another creative door.

 That's a very different definition of adventure, and I think many of you will recognize yourselves in it. There are so many things to see if we simply spend the time looking. I don't think these discoveries were hidden. They had probably been there all along. I just wasn't paying enough attention to notice them.

As I looked back over the week, it occurred to me that my adventures naturally fell into two groups. There were the larger adventures, like turning down an unfamiliar street just to see where it led. Then there were the smaller adventures—the discoveries that only happened because I'd made that choice in the first place.

Maybe that's the real lesson. Adventure doesn't always ask us to go farther. Sometimes it simply asks us to look more closely.

Today's adventure can be solitary and unplanned, like wandering down an unfamiliar street. Tomorrow's adventure could be shared and planned—a family meal, a movie, laughter, and time together. It is becoming clear to me that adventure isn't one thing. Sometimes it's wandering without a destination. Sometimes it's making time for the people you love. Sometimes it's both.

As I was writing about my week, I found myself thinking that my July theme of Freedom & Play has quietly been present all along. Freedom isn't just choosing a different street to walk down. It's also giving yourself permission to be curious, to linger, to photograph an empty storefront because it means something to you, and to let an ordinary Friday afternoon become part of your story.

Maybe that's the biggest change of all. I used to measure adventure by how far I travelled. Now I measure it by how closely I pay attention.

 So, dear reader, here's an invitation. You don't need to book a holiday or climb a mountain. Your next adventure might begin by taking the long way home, noticing the flowers growing on a neighbour's porch, or turning down a street you've always meant to explore. You may discover, as I have, that the farther you let your curiosity wander, the richer your ordinary days become.