Tonight, I cried for the first time in months, despite feeling like there have been plenty of good reasons to cry. I can hear the sound of her collar. I can smell the top of her head. A vividness I thought was totally gone. But just like so many times walking with her, the quiet walk turned down the volume long enough, so I could hear my own voice again. And I couldn’t stop thinking about my sweet girl, and how much I miss the simplicity of our walks.

We share a food story.

Sometimes that story is simple—dialing in cooking times and temperatures. Other times it carries more weight, like honouring the loss of a father by finding comfort in continuity. Food becomes a kind of social glue. It brings people together in joy, levity, and grief. It holds emotional range.

It’s busy, but I feel grounded. I’m grateful for the opportunity to bring people together in this way. I have a seat at the table.

We eat together.

Four weeks ago at the Strathcona Market, I struck up a conversation with Theresa from the SAGE Seniors Association. She was occupying the community booth next to our stall, and I noticed the word ‘nutrition’ on her sign and felt called to ask what she was working on. We delved into food security for seniors, and I was immediately drawn to how I could help.

And today, just three weeks later, I found myself in a seniors’ home, ladling warm Nova Scotia-style chowder into bowls. I fed and nourished about 15-20 seniors. I joined them, and we ate together. There is something deeply human about sharing a meal across generations.

Soup is simple, and that’s what I love about it most. I glanced around the room and saw wide-eyed, smiling faces emerging between spoonfuls of hearty chowder. Occasional bursts of laughter broke out, and a few of the seniors talked about soups they loved to make. I didn’t just serve chowder; I catalyzed belonging. Food brought these people together, and my embodied presence held the container.

I have had several opportunities to embody the Devotional Chef archetype this year. From the trail building Signature Trip, to shucking oysters on Blind Enthusiasm’s patio, I have taken in some rich experiences, where embodiment, presence, and craftsmanship intersect.

It’s my 10,000 hours — a gift of generosity to the world around me, a primal form of providing for others. An act of service borne of love, connection, and shared humanity

Share Holding My Wildness

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I sat in circle tonight, and shared my struggles with attachment and love with the men in my group. This was maybe the third time I shared, but this time I was fucking angry, and I just wanted to be heard. I am completely frustrated and at wits end with this version of myself. My brain knows, but my body has been slow to catch up. It has been 18 months of exploration into the depths of how I love. It included a crushing conversation about love and safety with my mom, to repeated apologies for projections that spewed out in all sorts of ways. Chasing someone who has always been fundamentally unavailable, and turning it into a story of longing. I am painfully aware of what I am. And yet knowing is not enough, because that lives in the depths of my nervous system.

A man I highly respect looked at me in the eyes from across the circle and said, “what I see in you that I see in me is a deep ache to be more than what you are.” Like most things, it took a minute to land, but when it did, all I could see was a 7 or 8 year old version of me that was willing to be whatever I needed to belong and to secure love. It’s that boy in me that is scared of losing connection, of being abandoned, of being the boy who’s never chosen. So tonight I am going to choose him.

Daniel,

I know you’re scared buddy, but you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t have to prove you’re worthy of love. You don’t have to earn it. You don’t have to offer the best of who you are to people who aren’t meant to hold it. You are worth of safety and security, and I can take care of that for us, now. I love you, and you are safe. I will give you all of the love that was meant for you. That doesn’t come from without, it comes from within. I love you, and I will always have your back.

Share

I miss her. I went through all of my pictures today, and deleted a bunch. And of course I saw so many pictures of her. Her beautiful red fur. The crooked teeth she showed when you told her to sit. When I put her down in May, everything got turned upside down.

It wasn’t just a loss, it was a fucking rupture. All of my daily rhythms gone in an instant, and sent it me reeling. I was completely beside myself. I walked her every day and every evening. Every decision I made, I filtered through taking care of her. And then she was gone. I walked her empty collar around the block the next day, and I could barely keep myself together. I had no fucking idea what to do. I stayed at work late, and I avoided going home. Every time I touched my door handle, I thought about her on the couch, but when I veered the corner, it was empty. It got to a point where I grabbed the handle and yelled, “she’s fucking dead, and she’s not there.” Her memory, so embedded in my nervous system. It wrecked me, and I am just starting to feel better.

And today, I felt joy and sorrow in the same breath. Her beauty made me smile, and her goofiness made me miss her so terribly. I am listening to Francis Weller’s The Wild Edge of Sorrow, and he reminds us that love and grief are sisters, and that their kinship reminds us that there is no love that does not contain loss. It took me weeks to sit with my grieving heart. And when I finally did, I spoke her:

“I am sorry I tried to forget you. I am just so lost without you, and I didn’t know what to do. I miss you every day.”

The presence of loved ones etches itself in our nervous systems; the very fibre of our being. You hear that grief isn’t linear, but it’s more than that. It’s forever. It’s proof how deeply we loved, and how deeply we still do.

💡Ritual Cue: Light a candle for someone you’ve lost this weekend. Remember them.

For most of my twenties and early thirties, I lived in my head.

I devoured books on psychology, intimacy, trauma—trying to make sense of my origin story. The twists and turns of childhood.

I could name the parts.
Describe the patterns.
Break it all down neatly.

Intellectualize.

I thought knowing was enough; confused knowledge for wisdom. The more I consumed, the more I drifted.

How often have I been disconnected from my body?

And the body keeps score.
I feel it in my clenched jaw.
In the tension in my pelvic floor when I get turned on.
In the ache to prove I’m good enough.
In the years of porn, shame, and numbing.

The body has its own language.

“The longest journey you will ever take is the 18 inches from your head to your heart.”

- Anonymous

Unfortunately, cognition cannot bridge the gap.

This is why embodiment is the gateway.
Because you can’t fuck, grieve, or lead from your head.
Because knowing doesn’t open your heart, or soften your belly, or draw a deep breath.

This is why we begin here.

Live Journal: Vanilla

She walked in and I caught it right away
Vanilla as we passed each other

I felt gripping in my chest
not like panic
More like the ache behind a sigh

The body remembers before words
I didn’t speak, but I must have flinched
Like an internal wincing

I didn’t chase a story. I just held it, and let it go

This is the practice. Witnessing the body speak.