My own life has been characterised by migrations, mostly chosen.
Each movement has been a kind of uprooting and re-rooting of my life.
To borrow a metaphor from Neil Bissoondath, I carry my roots in my pockets. Sometimes I find a place to bury them. Right now and for the foreseeable future they are buried in British Columbia, Coast Salish Territory. ‘Pocketed roots’ evokes a solitary journey, but the jostle of shared life is a constant companion—digging to make space beside another plant, the gentle pressing down of soil, tangling our roots and branches, then pulling up roots attached to and detaching from one another.
I also have many memories of processing the jostle in place: writing lines or pages in specific cafes, thinking through an idea on urban or wild walks, staring out windows as I formulate a sentence, looking up into branches, thirsty, and drinking them in. The pain of moving too often has made me curious about different ways of being and feeling rooted and about how life travels through periods of meaningfulness and alienation. Here are some photos of the landscapes that have watered the roots of my work and life: