right now, right here.


When I write, some words about the weather tend to slip out somewhere between the first or second or third sentence. It seems to happen all on its own, really. Sometimes I think it's because: in my mind mind (an entanglement of mostly metaphysical thoughts), it's one of the only things I know for sure. I can feel it with all five senses. It's concrete, real, bona fide. Or maybe it's as simple as: I'm a Canadian. It's what we do. We live through every seasons' extreme, and we talk about it.

Like if I were to write about last Sunday, I would probably write about how we voluntarily set our alarms the night before (during girls weekend, at that) and the next morning found ourselves experiencing the selcouth culture of motocross. I'd write about the three clapping-but-clueless girls on the bleachers (us) and Kazan and Gene's makeshift cargo trailer home. But first, I'd have to write about the frost we woke up to. How it went from below zero to plus twenty and how it felt like every season all at once. I wouldn't intend on writing this. I just would. 

Or if I were to write about right now, right here. I might write about how today was the first day since Summer I've photographed anything at home. I'd probably write about how fantastic/terrifying it is to finally be a senior, or how Tuesday night was both terrible and the night that I needed most. And honestly, I'd probably write about how this is the third time I've had toast today (right now, for late supper on the deck. with peanut butter.). And then I'd write about the weather, naturally. It's nice.

But this is better. Just writing what's on my heart, I mean. It's been a while. 

seeing the season.


Today, my jeans are sopping and splattered with mud, as I just biked home for spare in the pouring rain. Saturday, we went out hiking in the beautiful twenty-seven degrees. Most mornings, there's frost on the ground. And on Tuesday, it's rumoured to snow. So basically, it's a proper Manitoba autumn. 

Here's something I've been mulling over. When it comes to this season (or any season, really), I can't help but feel like we tend to get caught up in all the wrong things. I love a good pumpkin spice latte as much as the next person (even more, probably). I like living in my moccasins and I own more toques than I should. But I think that we often fail to remember the season itself. I've been making a conscious effort to see the season. To watch it unfurl in all its glory. To just live in it. 

So I ride my bike to school.
I hike uphill until my phone says WELCOME TO THE USA (living by the border is a funny thing).
I chip some more light off that stump just to prolong our ridiculous sister dance parties. 
And I take it all in. Because seasons don't come in grande paper cups. Hike on.

an autumn playlist

we gather out here.


Three days prior to summer's end, there was supper in the field. Chloe and I managed to escape to the farm for one last kick at the holiday can. Late Augusts and early Septembers have always meant tossing corn cob remains over our shoulders and coming back to the tailgate for seconds. They've meant wheat fields and canola fields and swimming in the grain truck. They've meant itchy legs and combine rides with Grampy. There's no longer room in there for me to sit on his lap and "drive". I've gotten too tall, but he gives his knee a slap and refuses to admit it. I'm the strongest man in the world. I love him. I love all of them. I love harvest.

a little video for my faraway family who couldn't come harvesting this year. you're welcome to watch it, too. but do yourself a favour and come view in HD.

second lake trip stories.


It's hard for me to sit down and write about these annual trips to the lake. The first reason being that once I write about it, the words are no longer my half-formulated thoughts. They're out there on paper. More distant. A thing of the past, even if I desperately wish they were still my present. The second reason being my incapability to sum up handfuls of my favourite moments in just mere sentences. I don't want to say that It was amazing. or give it to you all in a nutshell. I just want to tell you some stories.

Like how on the third night, we got that nasty windstorm we secretly always wish for. The sky was grey and the sun was pink and we played like six-year-olds (swim rings included) in waves unfamiliar to us prairie kids.

After renting out little yellow bicycles (bananas, we decided they were) we stuffed ourselves with beavertails (and lemon) at a mosquito-infested table somewhere between the town and the shore. You chased seagulls with your arms outstretched, yelling LOVE ME! They didn't.

Waking up in a cabin that still smelled like campfire and reese's peanut butter cup s'mores from the night before.

We ended up here on most afternoons, which was completely fine for a girl with a book obsession, a coffee problem, and a painting weakness. 

I disregarded the don't talk to strangers rule on more than one occasion (more on that another time). Strangely enough, its something I'd like to do more often.

The one night we stopped for gelati and dad said it reminded him of Italy because of the cobblestone and the busker on the cello, but the gelati just wasn't as good. We sighed, envious of his travels. I can't wait to take you there someday, he said. Neither can I. 

Staying out here a bit later than I should have (with Jack Kerouac and some chai), for no other reason than a) I'm a night owl. b) It was summer, and c) I wanted to. 

On the last night, we went swimming as soon as it got dark (and, yes. probably what you're thinking. it was a bucket list thing...). We had to stop halfway back up the steps because we were either panting too hard to properly giggle, or giggling to hard to properly pant. 

Not wanting to leave the cabin for the very last time and purposely leaving things inside, just to live the lake life for a second or two longer.

On the drive home, we stopped at that old-brick-church-turned-hammock-shop we've always meant to duck into. Instead of a hammock, we got a tour of the owner's basement pottery studio and his old lens for my film camera. Some strangers are wonderful. 

Those are my second lake trip stories.