Finally back in my real home in Scarborough, if only for a few hours. Having been near-constantly immersed in city smog for the past few months, I’ve forgotten how much I need all this: the deep, young green of grass and maples, the earthy, dew-filled smell of the air and light wind (easy breathing), and the diversity of bird calls: reassuring coos, prominent cries, and bubbly chirps, among others, courtesy of Z. macroura, L. delawarensis, and P. domesticus respectively, mixed in with the occasional ice cream truck. Even the fleeting movements of small creatures – a cloud of flies, a swiftly passing yellow jacket, cardinals, flitting gold finches, hopping squirrels, and swooping grackles – each dancing differently in my peripheral vision. Theirs is the kind of motion I like in a place I call home, but animal life aside, I like my streets to be still and silent, something one can only find on those suburban roads whose pavements are cracked with weeds, and which are only tainted by cars every so often. Scarborough is sound and silence, fullness and emptiness in a way that makes loneliness difficult, but thought very easy: you know you are not entirely away from others, given the distant drone of lawn mowers and far-away cars and the occasional train chugging past the golf course, but the strutting of the robin, a horizon free of buildings, and a leisurely absence of frequent pedestrians, vehicles, and lights leaves room for dreams. Add to that my cat and fish, the dog I walk, my family, and all my books, and I am at peace. If only all of my closest friends could be with me, too.
Really, I wish I could better paint pictures with words. In lieu of a more gratifying description, some photographs!
Nothing compares to this place, really. Finally letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding in.