walking on the side of the road
The sucking sound of tires on wet asphalt builds up behind, to a piercing crescendo, then shoots forward, like the release of a rubber band, as a silver sedan races past.
I traverse the tightrope of shoulder. A straight strip of cracking concrete—wide enough to walk but narrow enough to court collision—on an endless road without sidewalks or guardrails. Loose stones crunch and twist beneath my tread. I kick clusters forward, scattering them like shotgun spread. Feeling the old tug at my ankles.
Cold rain falls in sheets from a featureless gray sky. Red taillights streak and smear in the distance. The double yellow lines disappear into a shroud of damp mist, obscuring any horizon. But I’ve grown used to not being able to see. My eyes have adjusted.
The sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
A textured wall of deciduous trees—birch and maple and honey locust—shepherd my right. Muted light flows down from their branches; earnest, slender arms that stretch out in prayer. Their massed leaves make a fabric against the rain; the patter is ambient, affirming, and unhurried.
It remains cool, cleansed, and private beneath the trees. Moisture married to gravity.
A maroon pickup truck roars by, kicking up a long arc of spray in its wake.
The rain has soaked so far into my bones that the only thing to keep me warm is the only thing I know is necessary: Keep walking. Start with what is close. Own each small, intimate step. Entirely. And not look back.
I can’t remember how long it’s been. Or when I even started. But I’ve stopped checking the time.
Walking as cars whip by: a radical act of faith that only looks like bravery from the outside.
An arrowhead of geese paint their black silhouettes across the monochrome open sky. Puddles form below like miniature lakes. Drops of rain kiss the surface of the water and ripple outwards. Mossy rocks, teeming with invisible life, litter the thick earthy mat of leaves on the forest floor.
The gentle, steady rain continues. Water cascades in glistening globs from the dripping bare branches above.
But I have a raincoat now. To keep me dry. I didn’t before.
The wind pries at my hood with its stiff indifferent fingers, but I stay sheltered, bobbing in my shell as most water rolls off, weightlessly. I even tempt a smile.
The road is long. Beyond what I can see. At the end, another corner will wait. But the simple wish to find a way is more marvelous than any destination.
And I don’t mind the weather. I’ve decided it’s all good news. I am neither the rain nor the sun, the forest nor the road, but the one who walks between. Who exists through both. The bridge across the cracks of this broken world.
I lift my gaze.
The sky begins to split, gray clouds lit ablaze with silver, fingers of soft golden light reaching through. Birdsong echoes above. Flowers stand tall, dressed in nothing but light and their unwavering faith in the sun. My clothes steam in the bright air as the sky turns a deep, reassuring blue.
The wind blows away even the worst storm.
In a sudden, uplifting rush of conviction, I remember. I remember who I am, what I was put here to do: a child of light, to go forth and to shine.
I don’t know exactly what I mean by all of this. But I mean it.
Fun fact: To try something new, I wrote the first three drafts of this week’s essay by hand.
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👋 what i’ve been up to:
Enjoying my third week in Phuket. Mostly more of the same. Except I’m not as sore and blistered, now that my body has adjusted to the workouts. It’s popular for international tourism so I’ve got to meet people from all over the world.
Working on a curation piece on one of my biggest recent influences: Simon Sarris. I thought I’d share it soon but I want it to be thoughtful and patient. It will take a while.
I’m watching Jordan Peterson’s Maps of Meaning Lectures from a 4th-year course he taught at the University of Toronto and a series of Buddhist dharma talks from meditation teacher Joseph Goldstein. Educating myself has been a big priority. My university degree was less about figuring out how to live well and be a good person, and more about how to get a job and make money.
✍️ quote i’m pondering:
Musician John Mayer on being present:
“So wherever you go, just make a home right there and do that thing.
Wherever you are, go, 'this is where it's all at right now.'
... I’ve been having the time of my life because I figured that out.”
📸 photos i took:
This week in Phuket.
With freelance work winding down, I’m returning more seriously to photography and will begin to layer on new skills. I also want to capture much more of the mundane.
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You got all my love,
Tommy
I wrote this poem from the memory of something I’ve found myself doing in so many countries around the world—Czechia, Austria, Spain, Portugal, Argentina, Thailand, USA and my home country of Canada—walking on the side of the road.
On reflection, it felt like an apt metaphor for my current stage of life.
A wanderer. Solely alone. Somewhat broke. Daring to move in slowness. To do what is contrarian, misunderstood. Tread an untamed path that few choose to walk. Trying to follow the straight and narrow way to life, that Jesus speaks of. Not sure if it’s dangerous. Not sure if I’m lost. Not sure I’m supposed to be here. But going ahead anyways. Feeling like everyone is whipping by. Feeling like there’s no real place for me in this world. Kicking rocks.
My eyes adjusting. To not being able to see far into my future—my uncertainty tolerance growing. But also to the darkness that can come for me, unannounced.
Sometimes life feels like standing under a downpour.
The rain and dark clouds are symbolic of the discomfort and darkness and heaviness and tiredness that sometimes accompany me on my way. Water is an ancient symbol of chaos and the unknown. But also potential, where new things emerge. Rebirth. Like baptism. Darkness is where the light of revelation is seen and new horizons are formed.
It’s a difficult time of not knowing. But there’s a letter of invitation to embrace its beauty. Beauty in my immediate surroundings if I only pay attention. Nature as my companion through hardship. And beauty in the striving, the simple wish to find a way.
There’s an arc throughout the poem. Learning how to inhabit and embrace my aloneness, to put down its weight. Falling into a rhythm in each small step, keeping warm by keeping moving. Having a coat now, a better although imperfect way to survive the storm. Letting go of the need to know, to keep time, to compare. Accepting there will be no stark arrival.
Finding an identity as the one who mediates through both darkness and lightness, heaviness and lightness, chaos and order, nature and civilization. Not one or the other but the being between them. Who triumphs in both. But accepting the current state I find myself in as good news. Letting it work on me. Not asking premature questions. Feeling it all. Trusting.
Then the weather clears—that moment we remember that every dark cloud passes, even though it’s seeming permanence fools us. And there’s this radical remembrance. This return—a coming back to myself. This realization of hope and aliveness and wonder. That I’m made to handle all this and walk this path. That life is a boon and a blessing.
I thought carefully about each line. I hope you find the gems you look for.
Walking roadside.
I'm happily drenched by your shared memory. How do you keep going deeper and finding more life in smaller and smaller moments? This is not just the art of expression, but of perception. The degree to which you can take somebody somewhere with words is dependent on how "there" you have been yourself. You've turned "wherever you go, there you are" to "wherever Tommy goes, I get to go too."