Early rising to the just past full moon filling my tired eyes with the excitement of adventure far too early in the morning. I swerve between taillights and toll booths to arrive in time to board a plane bound for the Great Southwest. For those of us picturing adobe homes, prismatic ferrous shades throughout sculptural rock formations, cactuses and epic sunsets, I must correct that vision as it is the Great Southwest of our neighbor to the north, Canada.

I settle in to my seat. Catching up on one of the lost hours of rest is never as good but serves to fill, a little, my sleep depleted tank. Not enough however to erase the dreamy quality of arriving and walking through either a museum exhibit of the first nations peoples of southwestern Canada or an airport. In reality it was an abstraction of both that held together long enough to land me safely in the care of a good friend.

Now it’s on to conversations fueled by friendship and inquiry into the vulnerable. Propelled by deceitful diesel engines we travel through tunnels and on ferries our adventure punctuated by conversations with backhoe drivers and with folk-rock heroines.

Arriving at the beautiful home on the beach cradled by the cedar forest, my shoulders settle. The beauty brings a calm and rested feeling to my heart. Now my legs need to move or my belly needs to eat. Movement prevails to explore this beautiful seaside sanctuary. Face to face with the beauty and savagery of the natural world, we bring in the last egg laid by mink mangled headless chickens. Lamenting their loss, we are reminded that while they will no longer lay for the family, they will make great compost, nourishment for gardens and orchards to come.

After lunch we take a walk through the hills bogs and forests of this beautiful island. I’m living in the redwood forest these days. I love the cool relief it gives from warm California sun, but I forget the deep magic and moisture and intensity of the cedar forest. It is a special medicine. Grey clouds and cool temperatures filtered through emerald hues of green moss are punctuated by the patter of a light spring rain and the sound of creeks carving the landscape under their fluid pressures. From under the cover of the canopy I am reminded by views that I am in a forest “floating” in the sea. The salt air mixing with the wet forest soil fill my nose with a fertile brine and I see old trees, rotting nurse logs, supporting new spring growth on the forest floor.

In this time of change, in this practice of becoming, what conversations need to be turned into compost? What old patterns and old stories should be allowed to decompose to feed artistry and support new invitations in my life?