Sarah (left): Walt Whitman wrote a sad poem, wherein he writes, "the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odour." Aren't they, though? If our sense of smell is a gateway to memories hidden long ago, then lilacs are my port key to running along the Rideau Canal in university, inventing games with my brother in Grama's backyard, somersaults out front of my childhood home. They are part of the landscape in my personal narrative. If ever you have passed a bush in full bloom, you know the fragrance is powerful. In our new home, I am treated to wafts of lilac when breezes blow through our neighbour's yard and carry the scent into my open windows. Whenever I smell them, I get a feeling of having arrived. It is confirmation that, indeed, the long winter is over and warm, sunny days are here to be enjoyed.
Johanna (right): After a long and dark winter, you know that summer is here, when the wildflowers begin to pop up.On our walks, we spot lupines and today I spotted some wild strawberry flowers.
It is short, this season we call summer, but at the same time, the days are long. During the days, we play hard - running, biking, digging in the dirt and our days never seem to end with the midnight sun that keeps us up way past our bedtimes. I love how the wildflowers here act as little gifts. They pop up, so strong and hearty, and delight us with their bursts of colours.
The well-known poem by Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken ends, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference."Two women, who became friends via the magic of the Internet, were both living life on roads less traveled by. Circumstance had them both live in Whitehorse for a short time, where they became best friends. Life's map has them currently in differing geographic locations, but their connection and camaraderie continue as they continue on paths of motherhood, friendship, creativity and discovery. The Two Roads Project is our effort to reconnect with each other and our inner artists on a weekly basis, each Friday. (Or thereabouts. We don't always know which day of the week it is).