And so, to finally come to a point of stillness such that an orange and black patterned butterfly rests on my hands as I pause a moment while washing the breakfast dishes in a bucket. Watching families of sparrows, in their rightful place, the colour of the earth, flitting about competing for seed with the squirrel and a lightly tanned coloured vole and the tiniest mouse I’ve ever seen. A bounding snowshoe hare scatters them all. Sharing the moments before Fran lures and lands the male salmon, freshly in from the ocean, having travelled thousands of miles from Greenland to return to its birthplace, lying spent of energy just beneath the translucent water off our jetty. Then cradling it in my arms and feeling its weight reminiscent of holding a baby. Feeling humbled as we eat the pink flesh and imbibe its spirit. Combing the rocky lake shoreline, exposed by this warm, rainless summer, searching for evidence of ancient Indian inhabitants. Imagining their summertimes along this salmon run, land of plenty. Mica and quartz twinkle their light in the sandy bottom as I shallow dive through water that has the feel of wet silk against my now refreshed skin. A slight breeze kisses my cheeks bringing with it the rich perfume of salmon. Silently picking black blueberries that leave a purple stain on my finger tips and makes the morning porridge turn pink. Listening to the lapping of the water created by the wake of a passing fishing boat. Sitting in the long twilight, bathed in the colours of a sunset mirrored in the pond. Deep, blue, fresh, water and an endless canopy of sky, with just a strip of land, and us, in between. A family of loons call out to each other. Coyotes make their presence felt at night, but not the private bear or moose. Days spent in fog and drifting mists and thought, hidden from the universe on our own island in the middle of nowhere. Just breathing it all in…and being thankful, knowing that whatever lies ahead, I can always return to that butterfly, resting for a moment on my hand.