One glows with screens, satellites, promises of speed and efficiency.

The other smells of cedar and salt, of tide and moss, of a forest floor softened by centuries of falling needles.

Likely a result of the collapse of the nearby Harewood Mines…

I step into an old-growth forest where time loosens its grip. The ground is soft beneath my boots, layered with centuries of fallen needles, leaves, and moss. Each step sinks gently, as if the forest itself is receiving me. The air smells of damp earth and cedar—clean, ancient, alive. Here, waiting doesn’t feel like an absence. It feels like presence.

Coastal Island rain has a way of slowing everything down. It does not fall with urgency; it arrives with intention…

We still talk as if there are endless forests. Endless big trees. As if time itself is on our side. As if what we see out of a windshield is proof enough that everything is fine.

I hear it often: “Just look around.”
As if looking is the same as seeing.

Little Tree...

Little tree, look at you. Against all odds, here you are.

Celebrating what remains…

Standing at an estuary, you can feel the meeting of worlds. The smell changes. The soundscape shifts.

Rain is where the story begins, as it so often does here.