A few months back, on a night flight home from a work trip, I watched the recently released Martin Short documentary “Marty, Life is Short”. I loved it so much. It made me feel thoughtful and centered and joyful, even though parts of it were deeply sad in a way that life is, for everyone. I was inspired by Marty’s resiliency amidst several personal tragedies, and a bit of an uphill climb in his quest for pursuing his passion, his art. A few weeks later, I sat down in our living room with Rob and we watched it together, because I wanted him to come away with the same feelings I had when I watched it alone. Inspired by Martin and Nancy’s epic love story – their marriage, their parenthood, their friendships. Their joint pursuit of what mattered most to them – purposeful and life giving friendships, in places that feel like home. It’s one of those documentaries that tugs at whatever loose threads may be fraying inside you and ties them off for you in a simple, reverent way. It reminds you that life is truly what you make it and build it to be. It’s wildly unfair, there is a lot of luck involved, and most everything important can be measured mostly by how you respond to failure. And, it really is very short, and no one is guaranteed anything at all.
The centerpiece of the story for me, outside of the marriage that Marty and Nancy shared, was their beloved cottage on Lake Muskoka – a place that he affectionately called Snug Harbour; their summer home, refuge, gathering space for everyone who meant anything to them. I loved the home videos that show them hosting Christmas there – how many people were packed into that cottage, singing and playing piano, and just celebrating the fuck out of the holidays together. That is the PEAK of life right there. Marty even came up with his own drink (rum and Ting) that he likes to serve people when they arrive at Snug Harbor, this idea that the place has an identity, preferences, and insists that you experience life a certain way when present. I love the concept of prescriptive treasures that begin to feel effortless, totally habitual and necessary. Life really is whatever you curate it to be. The ceremonies can become the way of life.
I’m not sure when we had this conversation, whether it took place before I watched this documentary or after, but Rob and I were having a conversation not that long ago, and he said he had a feeling looming that something big was coming one day, or that he had the urge to make something really big happen. To be honest, that’s how a lot of conversations with Rob go. It’s usually me, absorbing, and Rob, verbalizing the most exquisite and profound thoughts that would take me days to reciprocate. The man just…gurgles richness from his core, and has this incredible ability to shape those mindful glimmers into full thoughts, run on sentences, colored and textured and complete. It’s really quite something. Anyway, I asked him what was coming? He said “it’s one of two things. I either buy a Ford GT or we buy a family property on water”.
Rob has this delicious talent for dreaming massive dreams, long before there is a shred of possibility, and he doesn’t keep those dreams to himself while they bake. He enjoys dedicating actual usable brain power to them. He likes talking about them, exploring the angles, and asking for my feedback. He likes talking down rabbit holes, even when what we are talking about may likely never come to actually be reality. After many years of having a silent role in this approach, I’ve begun dipping my toe into the tactic. What if we did have a family lake home? What would that life really look like? What if we had a heartbeat home – something that was the centerpiece of our family? A retreat, a homestead, the promise land for our family (and future family)? In that original conversation, I remember asking Rob “but how would that even work!? How could we have two homes when we love our current home so much?” And he just smiled and said “well, I don’t know yet, we would just have to figure all of that out”.
So every once in awhile, since that conversation, I’ve been sneaking into the idea of our own Snug Harbour. A cottage on some water, somewhere we run to when we want to breathe, or celebrate, or think, or simply just live. A retreat in the trees, nestled somewhere not too far away, accessible and available and ready for us. A place where our family could spend the holidays, and our friends could use when they wanted some space. A place where EVERYONE wants to be and feels they can be. A place to belong in the years that inevitably pass. What if we could find a way to make a home in multiple places? Somewhere Ellie would always know is there for her, and some place she wants to bring her most favorite people to one day.
Dreaming dreams that feel impossibly out of reach isn’t intuitive or comfortable for me. But I’d like to think I’m capable of doing things that are uncomfortable, even if they feel whimsical and silly and unlikely, that maybe that is the point. Maybe we should stretch the vulnerable parts of our hopes and dreams once in awhile, reach out into the atmosphere and wiggle our fingers at it and wait for something great to touch us back.
The Wayfaring Friend 