So early, early, in the spring...

I'm moving into the 'STFU and finish it' phase of my edits, which likely means less activity on social networking, however that might manifest this time. But this morning I've found myself staring out the window at the storm-gray bay and thinking not so much on the beauty of this place I live but on its transformative power.

I've stood on the rocks at Peggy's Cove the day before a hurricane while the sun baked the water into salt on my face. I've gone raspberry picking in the Annapolis Valley and stuffed my face with huge, sweet berries on a hot, summer day. I've driven infant squirrels from Bridgewater to Seaforth because every life matters. I've taken suffering raccoons to a gentle death. I've released rehabilitated owls to the wild. I've encountered cougars on the road.

I've also put the mother tongue of my ancestors in my mouth and put their songs in my throat. I've played the bodhrán at a ceilidh at 1:00 in the morning while two kinds of Gaelic were spoken around me. I've spoken Gaelic in kitchens over tea. I've come to befriend Gaels. I've become a Gael.

When I was younger, my faith was a blend of nature-worship and Celtic romanticism that I promised myself I would realize in the real world someday. Well, this is how it looks to realize that promise, and Nova Scotia is the landscape of that realization. It has my loyalty, for certain. But beneath the landscape and loyalty is something I've only brushed against with words. It's the sacred, living spirit of this place, its saltwater blood, its heartbeat like the footfalls of a coyote, the berries on its belly, the languages in its stones. I came to it a student, and it moves through me along the conduits of my being that hide from the vulgarity of words, changing and empowering.

I'm following some stories for my activism update, which I hope to post later this week. Writing updates will come when I have more to say. In the meantime, be well, everyone.