Lavender skies and an ocean tide that pulled back so far you’d think it never washed over the rocks in which we trampled.
Yet the beds of tangled seaweed beneath our feet were a subtle reminder of the way in which everything changes.
A slice of silver moon dangled over a green pine forest.
The world was wide and vast.

Every pebble seemed to tug on something deep inside of me.
Angry violet and sea-foam green, candy-floss pink and office block grey, minerals and sediment fused together over centuries of the ocean battering the shoreline, of the tides washing in and out, in and out.
A seagull circled over our heads.

To travel is to see the earth, to compare coastlines, to notice the disparities between places and cultures, the similarities between all of humanity.
Don’t we all just want the same things?
I lay down on the sand, waves washing over my skin,
the sting of salt rinsing fear from heavy bones.
I thought of all the people, in all the different countries, feeling all the things.
Hungering for the hands of another.
Diving into dark waters, lakes of pleasure and pain, anticipation, loss.
Devouring dessert,
Dying of hunger.
Discovering new worlds.
Drowning in bath tubs of Sunday’s loneliness.

The world turned salmon pink and then a soft orange,
clouds drunk on honey ginger whiskey.
We stumbled back to the campsite in the dark.
Dry wood crackled on the campfire.
Hot flames licked at our feet.
Above us stars glittered in the empty spaces between the branches.
I felt my mother’s spirit guiding me.
I felt the Canadian wilderness holding me.

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