One of my earliest memories of nature is a day trip with my parents, who pointed out snow-capped grey mountains in Banff to my bewildered young eyes. My parents, born in Nova Scotia and Ontario, were new to Alberta. They were on a years-long layover in a faraway place, in search of their own elusive sense of “home”.
Two years ago, I walked down the highway that I now call home, gazing out upon the river. I knew I could be comfortable here — just not yet. When we were evicted because of the sale of our rented house, we hauled ourselves up the coast and landed just outside of Chester. We recalibrated our lives with the aid of the majestic ocean basin that lay down the road. After another twelve-month sojourn in a temporary space until that house’s owner needed to move back in, we returned to the river — thanks to a serendipitous rental listing — and began to lay down roots along its shore.
The magnetism of the LaHave is unmistakable. There is an overarching inclusiveness, patience and gratitude amongst those who have migrated here for earnest reasons: to do right by our community and serve as stewards of our shared physical environment.
Finding home within ourselves, a family, or a partnership might be a tall task, but sharing space within a collective tilts the odds of thriving keenly in our favour. Having anyone to turn to in a time of need is an immense privilege. Finding more than one helper to approach — a neighbour, a farmer, or even nature itself — is belonging.
The places we’ve called home as a duo — from one-room apartments to sleeping in our minivan to staying with family — have placed varying amounts of external pressure on our relationship. Feeling comfortable within ourselves and our extended family and community once felt like an insurmountable hurdle. It has taken decades, but allowing our sense of “home” to be swept along both rough and gentle waters while holding steadfast to the life raft of our partnership has repeatedly kept us afloat.
