Who says you can’t go home? - Jon Bon Jovi, Jennifer Nettles

In 2008, life was crazy.  We’d put our 4- and 6-year-old boys to bed then work side-by-side on our laptops until midnight - Sarah running two businesses, me leading a non-profit (ACCES) and serving on too many boards.  We bought a hot-tub just to force us to sit together unplugged for 20 minutes a day.  We could literally count the stars - only about five could battle through the urban light pollution (six if you counted the spotlight from the car dealership).  Was this really how we wanted to live and raise our children?

It was in that hot tub that we decided to step away from it all - move to WildSide Farm in the Cowichan Valley on Vancouver Island, ditch my career path to become a stay-at-home dad and farmer (and blog-writer).  Worst case scenario, we reckoned, was that we’d feel lost in a small town, never learn to grow garlic, and move back to Vancouver.  But it was worth the chance to see if it could indeed slow us down, plunk us into a more connected community, and give our children the chance to grow up free-range.

We ended up thriving there for seven years - the longest we’ve stayed anywhere in our adult lives.  We developed a rich and meaningful web of friends and work and farming and community involvement, and only left because of a deep desire for our children to experience other cultures and languages.

In January, for the first time since we left in 2015, Sarah and I went back to stay in the valley for 2.5 weeks (unlike past whirlwind visits).  What would our beloved community feel like without children? After the growth and changes we’d all been through?  Without work, without some friends who have moved away?

And what of the deep political and ideological divides that have been particularly acute in the Cowichan Valley?  Vastly differing views (and sources of information) about vaccines, gender identity, “freedom” and even the Canadian flag have ripped our community apart, ended friendships, even destroyed careers.  Could we feel safe and comfortable in such an environment?

The simple act of traveling to the Cowichan Valley is balm for the soul. Seals following the ferry through the Gulf Islands.  The view across the Salish sea down to the Olympic Peninsula from the top of the Malahat.  Rolling farmland as we rolled into our rural house-sit in Cherry Point.  Seafood chowder with dear old friends at OUR Ecovillage where we had spent our first cold month in a tent, and where I later worked in various capacities for almost a decade.  What better first day could there be to settle our apprehensions?

The division and fear and anger I mentioned above are real.  We met with several friends (on “both” sides of the divide) who have been deeply wounded, received death threats, lost their jobs, and separated from long-time friends.  I have deep respect for these friends who choose again and again to speak truth to misinformation, stand up for what they believe, refuse to stay quiet. And like them, I hope that the way will open for people to remember how to listen deeply to each other, to create a safe forum for dialogue and working together.  Call me naive, but I have to believe that if we do eventually return to the Cowichan, we will find a way to be part of a positive mending, which starts with the acknowledgement that we all care about our families, our community, our country.

Thankfully, that rancor wasn’t the dominant energy we experienced.  Old friends opened their homes and hearts to us - eight years of missing the day-to-day trivialities that build relationships had not diminished the base heart connection. Hikes at Kinsol Trestle and from Glenora to the Cowichan River are still among the most breathtaking in the world.  Cowichan Bay is still a sleepy little postcard-perfect wonder.  Miss Hitch at Sunrise Waldorf School is still the wonderfullest teacher ever. The old school we turned into “The Hub” is still a thriving community center and café.  Many of the community projects I helped initiate, such as the “Cow-op” online farmers market, are still growing. Our farm is still a wild place where children from multiple families grow and play together with the same freedom and abandon that nourished our lucky boys.

Thank you, Cowichan, for loving us enough to let us leave on this rather-extended walk-about (eight years and counting), and for still being the magical wonderland community with wide open arms should we someday be ready to come back.  You truly are the “Warm Land,” and for now that is all the Home this vagabond heart needs.