I flew to Montreal this morning to co-facilitate this event with one of my business partners.
More than 200 people, mostly women, from every province and territory and many First Nations communities, who work in the shelter and transition house system.
I got here early so I could go for a run on the mountain, and then pop by my friend Joanne’s catering kitchen for a quick lunch and some fancy healthy muffins she made me.
I surprised myself by running all the way to the top of Mont Royal and back again, a 1:15 hr run, the longest in a few years.
It was an absolutely glorious day, the kind you can only find in September and early October in Canada, crisp and warm and sunny and clear, and I felt so joyful to be among the many people wandering up the trails.
Near one of the entrances, at the big memorial to… something, there were drummers, and dozens of people happily sitting around just generally making joie de vivre.
And it made me wonder whether, if my people had stayed here in 1703, instead of plowing on down the St. Lawrence and through the great lakes to the completely uncolonized Windsor/Detroit area, whether I’d be a person yearning to sit in the sun, gently and calmly enjoying the drumming and the music. Whether my thrusting little personality was genetically forged from people who were always on the hunt for ducks and muskrats, for something to trade, for the means to make a living, for fending off the encroaching forest. Whether if we’d stayed put, I’d have a different rhythm running through my veins, a rhythm calling to me to sit down, relax, enjoy the music, instead of running up and down the mountain.