Canadian hiking. Practices of Rebirth.

We left at 8:30 in the morning. Just like 5 years ago, getting everyone ready and calmly leaving the house is an utterly impossible task when you have two growing, energetic, shouting, singing, non-stop talking, fighting, and constantly complaining boys in your family. 

No matter how zen I start each morning, by 9 AM in 90% of cases, I am already losing my temper and cursing, sometimes even out loud. This happens every time my eldest son refuses to wear a jacket because "it's hot outside," despite the obvious -2 degrees at the end of April. Nothing works when I try to convince that he's not aCanadian yet, walking around in shorts year-round, and that I have a near-heart attack with every sneeze and cough, because in Canada it's better not to get sick at all. Meanwhile, my pre-teen children can sleep in winter hats "because it keeps their hairstyle," but getting them to put on jeans instead of pajama pants for school is nearly impossible. The process of "Canadianization" of children is happening at lightning speed.

After surviving an incredibly tough February, which ended in victories but drained so much energy that I literally fell into March and April, immersing myself completely in work projects and strengthening relationships with colleagues and my new boss. Work is always my anchor of normality and sanity, the place where I always feel like myself.

At the same time, over the past 6 months, I've experienced strange flashes of the darkest self-sarcasm and a sense of the grotesque nature of my so-called emigration. It's like when you've spent two years carefully painting every stroke of your canvas and then step back five steps to see the whole creation. Instead of the birds and flowers you thought you were depicting, you see a completely different and unexpected picture. Even the colors are not what you mixed on the palette.

For instance, learning that my beloved author and psycologist Irvin Yalom got married for the second time at 92 years old—five years after burying his 1st wife—the first thing my inner critic blurted out was, "So Irvin Yalom is celebrating life at 92, and you still can't adapt to Canada, despite having all the conditions to do so."

Then, unexpectedly, there was a total solar eclipse, for which everyone prepared and even carefully bought tickets to Niagara, as it was said that there would be a spectacular view. On that day and hour when the eclipse occurred, I was driving through the roads of Halifax to change my winter tires to summer ones. The weather was clear as never before. My eldest son in the back seat was watching the darkening sun through special glasses they were given at school, repeatedly saying, "Mom, look, it's like an Instagram filter in real life, no need to swipe." I vehemently denied the existence of any other eclipse besides the one happening for the third year in Ukraine, silently cursed, and told him, "Okay, Dania. Just don't look at the sun without glasses, ok?." My jaw clenched, wrinkles deepened, and the gearbox creaked. I derived as much pleasure from the eclipse as those who bought tickets to Niagara, where it was cloudy that day.

We left at 8:30 AM. It took about an hour to drive to Victoria Park in Truro. Since February 24th of that year, every time I drive for more than an hour, my psyche automatically switches to "refugee mode"—the same state I vividly described two years ago. Mentally, I irreversibly become clad in metal and mercury, gripping the steering wheel and merging with the car, literally feeling a shared bloodstream, synchronizing with it as if I'm again taking my family out of Russian missiles and bombs, once again driving through villages, cemeteries, fields, and towns of western Ukraine, repeating a prayer that my worn-out timing belt, which I didn’t have time to replace, doesn’t break. Or when, after five sleepless days, already in Poland, I decided to move forward to Warsaw without overnight but catching the moment I was falling asleep at the wheel, I stopped the car at the edge of a noisy autobahn to nap for 15 minutes, but the persistent adrenaline in my blood wouldn't let me. The dawn of March 2, 2022.

We left at 8:30 AM and after an hour were in one of the power places of Canada, Victoria Park at Truro. There are many such places here, and I’m sure everyone finds their own. We pass signs warning not to feed the wildlife and that people who, with good intentions, feed ducks and deer, actually hurt their stomachs. We greet every passerby with a dog and every runner passing by. All members of my family argue about where and how to go. They are of different ages, generations and characters. And I, their endless referee, set the middle pace, as is customary. They quiet down and start looking around.

Nature in Canada is an absolutely unique, often truly wild, intentionally untouched phenomenon. That’s why deer and raccoons, beavers and squirrels often come to people’s backyards. Hummingbirds fly to patios, jays and cardinals walk on windowsills demanding food. Cars patiently wait for a family of geese to cross the road. No one would even think to get out of the car to hurry them along.

We go deeper and deeper into the forest. The runners are fewer, the misty, warm, moist, viscous air gets thicker, the trees denser. When you find yourself roughly in the middle of a Canadian forest path, despite all the trail’s cultivation—quiet signs reminding you that you are still part of civilization and that north is this way and the exit is that way—you still feel a bit like Robinson Crusoe. And it’s an incomparable feeling. Here you can always satisfy your wildest sociopathic fantasies, because disconnecting from society is very easy—just choose the right path and mentally transition into that dynamic meditation called walking or running.

You walk at an average pace, unconsciously performing a mission of clearing your mind. There’s no one around. And if you do meet someone, they will never show their presence, because everyone understands without a glance or sigh why we are here.

Do not touch, respect boundaries, take care.

And you walk on soft moss through the thin damp web of spruces and pines, sweat drops running down your spine, your face flushed, and you can’t stop, as if something inside says, “just one more turn and back.”

Then, like the hero of a famous fairy tale, you come across a high staircase with the cheeky name Jacob’s Ladder, which, with its height and steepness, looks down at you so arrogantly that instead of a nameplate, it seems everyone reads “Climb me.” And in the end, you climb this height and, halfway up, curse, not understanding why on earth you decided to do this... just like with Canada. But reaching the top platform, you happily exhale, walk a few more meters, and see a pull-up bar thoughtfully prepared by someone... presumably for those who need even more pull-ups, if 242 steps were not enough for complete bliss.

Then your renewed by this hike version relaxes and gets back into the car. You don’t want to eat or drink. You feel light and clean. And you are once again ready to return to people.

For a short while.

Until next weekend.

We left Kyiv at 8:30 AM on February 24, you know which year. And today, every time I walk or drive for a long time, it feels like I’m going through my own rescue story again, always thinking of each of us whose life and home the most despicable nation in the world turned into a complete meat grinder...