Halycon days, when time seems merely an afterthought. When all that measures the day is the shadows length on the ground and the settling of dusk. This is what it means to drive to the Kootenays to me. To sit beneath the cedars, to walk through the forest which breathes light and memory, to sit on the lake and watch the diamonds form on it's surface, rippling in the slightest breeze. I love the way twilight descends in the mountains, layers of blue, shadows of a indigo tarp that stretches over each knoll and mound, an eerie painting that undulates and shifts before the eyes. I can smell water on my skin and beneath that smell is memory, visions of all the waters past I have swum in. It lies waiting in my hair, that sweet smell of liquid summer and I flash to the jewel waters of the Caribbean, to the heat of a sun that never ends. New Zealand and the wild bay where I ran to the sound of the sand beneath my feet. It all echoes into the caverns of the mind, one leading to the other along the jagged edges of consciousness. They are all there; Australia, Nova Scotia, Salt Spring Island, as the mind traces the path of water beneath my skin. It is the smell of all moments condensed into one sparkling crystal moment. Later, the moon perches on the lake, a strange bird. I sit on the dock, the air tingling on the skin and watch the dark banner of water rippling with ribbons of wind. I feel as if I am 15 again, the night slides by, fluid as the dark road speeds by. Fast, while the moon is a siren call behind me, dress hiked up, bare legs, bare feet, holding on tight while the bats flicker out of the headlights. Yes, it is an invincible feeling, perfection you just don't want to end. There is something about the moon over the water that defies words, it is a stillness that hovers long after the moon has slid from its mountainous cradle into the waiting sky. It is a rariety for me to see, landlocked as I am in Calgary, so I gather each precious image and cherish it, crumbs on a bread trail to infinity. 

It almost feels like a dream when I come home, something that was beyond myself. As work creeps into my mind, I feel it all becoming memory, not the living state of being it was just days before. So I write while I can still hear the sounds of the water as clearly as the machines out my window. I write while the moment fades, just to savor for one more moment the halycon summer.

Listen

Connect

Join the email list!

Find Me