canoeing ovenbird Unlike mini_golf, this is something I can do. I learned to traverse the rivers and lakes of Northern Ontario by canoe when I was seventeen. I can sink my paddle into the water and make this craft go anywhere I like—to the island we spot in the distance, to within feet of those turtles sunning themselves on a log, to the center of deep ponds of memory where water striders walk the surface making a pattern like rain. In the wilderness of Woodland Caribou, so many years ago, we never saw another human outside of our own group of intrepid girls, all of us wearing the dirt of the forest, weary and full of wonder. We learned to portage, letting our backs become fulcrums balancing the weight of heavy aluminum vessels. We learned to synchronize our strokes, two to a boat, to maximize power and minimize effort. The days were long and fell right out of the stream of time. We paddled for hours, j-stroke and pry and sweep and pull. We watched a hundred tiny islands slide past. We made note of the presence of bears. We floated our toothpaste in dry bags at night so animals wouldn’t be tempted to explore our tents. We slept on the rocks, our breathing falling into a rhythm akin to our paddling—our chests rising and falling, our shoulders growing strong as we raised the paddle again in our dreams, poised to cut through the surface of the water. During the day we watched thunderstorms sweep in, took shelter under the densest trees, prayed the lightning wouldn’t strike too close. The loons sang to us when we built our evening fires. We were up at dawn, steering our lives by the sun, as no one was allowed to bring a watch. We were meant to know what it’s like to let your body attune to the natural cycles of the world. I remembered how to be an animal, my nose turned to the breeze. Out on the marsh at point_pelee, an eternity later, my dad is powering our canoe from the bow. I’m relishing the familiarity of my place in the stern and we’re traversing a stretch of open water. An egret takes flight and my daughter catches it in the circle of vision afforded by her binoculars. Water lilies glow an impossible yellow. A fish leaps out of the water and startles us all into laughter. Despite the decades that are tangled in the weedy depths, my arms still feel up to the task. My muscles remember what I have forgotten—that I once learned to read the lakes of the Arctic watershed, edges crusted with ice even in August; that I can extend my mind down under the choppy chaos of everything anxiety has stolen from me to a place that is still and silent underneath; that while my vision isn’t as sharp as it once was, I can still see well enough to know what this moment is worth. “This has been the best day,” my father says and I know he’s right. We point ourselves towards the docks, but leave our voices to echo over the water: this has been the best day. 250802 what's it to you? who go blather from