Weekend at Wanasing
One Labour Day weekend, many moons ago, I had the opportunity to spend a glorious week at a cottage with one of my dearest friends, Ainslie. It turned into one of those weekends that will live forever in my head, captured mentally in a Instagram-ish haze.
I could relive that exact week a thousand times and never tire of it. We drank copious amounts of tea and wine. We ran up the sand dunes until our lungs begged us to stop, then we fell, laughing into the sand, panting until we were ready to do it again. We rode random bicycles that called the cottage their home, stopping along the side of the road to pick wildflowers and create make-shift bouquets.
People came and went all week. We stayed up late, we all slept in a pile of limbs and sleeping bags. We walked down the beach and skinny dipped in the moonlight.
The soundtrack to the week was as varied as the flowers we picked. Etta James, Madrigaia, Simon and Garfunkel, and Leonard Cohen. We belted out the songs at the top of our lungs, and danced until our legs gave out. When I got home, I made a mixed CD that tries hard to capture the spirit of the trip, but I desperately need a version that has my sweet Ainslie singing along.
We talked for hours about Eastern and Western philosophies, notebooks in hand, planning all kinds of cleanses and dietary changes. We vowed to live clean and in the moment, and appreciate all the small things.
Now Ainslie lives far away, leaving a little hole in my heart. But you know those friends that you can see once every 5 years and pick up EXACTLY where you left off? Those souls that are entwined with yours so intricately that nothing could ever truly keep you apart? Yeah…me, too.