Aging Into The Roots

This year didn’t just pass. It felt like it 'grew' me.

I learned to listen more; not just to others, but to the quiet voice inside. The one that remembers who I am when everything else feels uncertain.

I spent some of the week of my birthday in Manitoba, saying goodbye to my Grandpa Richard. I didn’t expect it to feel like such a homecoming. The Familiar sky, unspoken prayers in the wind, and gathering of family.

Driving the old Ford truck... something about old things that speaks to me. The way they hold history in their wear. The way they still run, even after all they’ve been through. Maybe it’s not always about legacy in the obvious sense. Maybe sometimes, it’s just about honouring the things that last.

Rachel and I pulled out old writings and photos- many hidden away for decades. It felt like time-travel, like becoming our elementary school selves again: laughing over each note, uncovering memories we (atleast I) didn’t know we still had.

I’ve come to realize that poetry isn’t just what we write. It’s what we live. It’s how we keep showing up when everything around us says stop.

This year reminded me that healing isn’t linear, and joy doesn’t always shout.

Sometimes, it’s found in bedtime prayers. In the silence between walls. In nature- where your roots still know your name.

Being back home and connecting with people who remembered Grandpa was a gift. There’s comfort in shared memory. Theres also strength in knowing you’re not the only one carrying a story. And I know for certain, Grandpa won’t be a forgotten part.

So here’s to 32.

To faith unfolding.

To roots reaching deeper than what is known.

To family- found and chosen.

To stories that don’t need perfect endings to be sacred.

To old trucks and new roads.

Thank you to all those that have been walking with me.

But I am still writing this, verse by verse.

Verse by Verse

(poem)

Some verses aren’t written.

They’re lived in the quiet,

in the holding on.

The land still knows me.

The sky hasn’t forgotten.

And neither have I.

Old things still run.

Still matter.

Still speaking ways the new never could.

I’m not following a map.

I’m following faith.

One verse,one mile at a time.

Healing came softer this year...

in bedtime prayers,

in shared memory,

in stories that stayed.

My girls don’t know

that they’re my greatest poem.

But every laugh, every prayer-

writes me whole.