Each co-op forms a time capsule, a fervent flashing of events captured between stills. It is a record of fleeting time spent somewhere new, with the knowledge of time’s constant drain. There is an inexcusable awareness of temporality which adds weight to each decision. Because of this, the 6 am starts become easier, the aching muscles feel like accomplishment instead of a hindrance, and the air tastes that much better. What follows is a collection of thoughts and images, a time capsule if you’ll indulge me, of how I spent the last few months of 2019 in Calgary, which closes a loop I started over two years ago.
A strong belief in biophilia has always been an integral part of my life, long before I’d heard it put into a term. It is a belief in our innate connection with nature and our intrinsic evolutionary ties to the environment which provided us with life and shelter for millennia. Brought on by urbanization and little preservation of landscape, we have become disconnected and detached from nature. This detachment has been linked to deteriorating mental and physical health.
3,303 km and 882 days behind me I chased ghosts back home. With solid feet and a faltering exhausted mind I returned to the valley of giants. I once again breathed the air of which I was so accustomed to and immersed myself in the violent upheaval of stone that surrounded me. I stood in the footsteps of another life, another time and another version of myself. When I left Calgary last time, I had no idea when I would return, who would still be here, or where I would be. I left a month before my interview for Waterloo, and in the last two years, I have grown almost unrecognizably. Yet here I was, thrown back in time and retracing the steps of my past.
I can’t explain the feeling of peace that overcomes me when I summit a ridge and look over the sharp peaks. Like a multitude of waves passing over me at once, I am enveloped by contradiction, a tidal wave of calm, and a warmth of insignificance. Dwarfed by the behemoths in all directions, they are a testament to the trial of the ascent. I breathe perhaps the clearest air I have ever encountered. Ever aware of the chilling wind that threatens to rip me off my perch, I stand in the in-between. The ridge is a place of duality, a thoughtlessly shifting and morphing creature. At any instant, it can roll in a heavy obscuring fog, rain down a whirlwind of hail, rumble with the great warnings of impending thunder, and in only a moments notice clear to an utter silence. This shear show of force and warmth in unison places oneself in the universe, more than any conviction ever could. This is where I feel most at peace, most myself and most at home. After eight hundred and eighty two days, four countries, and what feels like a lifetime away, I returned to a place I knew I always would. I rediscovered my concept of home, my connection to nature, and hastened on my way, looking ever eagerly to the next step, and the next journey, that started with a long descent from a mountain top.
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