Returning to Centre

Right now, I’m sitting on my daybed in the most beautiful office space I’ve ever had. Almost everything in this room—and in my home, really—has passed through my hands in recent months. Dusted off. Let go of. Or gently placed back with care.

For the first time since leaving Cape Breton, I have space again. Space for the meditation cushions I’ve sat on for over 20 years. Space to play, to create, and to be.

Across from me sits a 1976 Kermit the Frog—a gift from my best friend during grad school, when we were both being fabulous and fierce. He rests on top of a vintage turquoise typewriter, a gift from Stacy to encourage my writing.

Altars filled with sacred objects from my travels line the shelves, surrounded by books on cultural anthropology, pilgrimage, mythology, and ancient women’s wisdom. There are art supplies and cabinets of full of journals, flower essences, tarot and oracle decks, and candles and crystals. Echoes of every version of me I've ever been.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel at home.

After I burnt out, I felt like a stranger to myself. Nothing that once gave me meaning felt right anymore. I felt adrift and missed the ocean I once lived beside deeply—but even more than that, I missed the version of me who knew how to listen to my inner tides.

I thought decluttering would be about letting go. But instead, I found myself uncovering old longings, devotions, commitments, and memories that said, “You are still here.”

I understand now, after taking everything apart and setting it down, that I needed to do that in order to know—without a shadow of a doubt—who I really am and what really matters. And now I’m ready to return.

Return to my sacred work.
Return to my creative voice.
Return to the page.
Return to you.

Life really is a spiral.

Even when you think your are walking away, your are always turning back to centre.