Reflections
Stories and reflections on life, love, loss, and the ordinary moments in between.
Inspired by seasons, travel, silence, connection, and the moments that remind us what matters. This space is an invitation to pause, reflect, and find our way through life as it unfolds.
Will partage également des réflexions en français — des contemplations inspirées de la vie quotidienne, de la photographie et de la poésie du ralentissement.
The Invisible Line Between Neighbor and Stranger
Sometimes community begins with a chair. Sometimes with a plant.
More often, it begins with simply noticing one another.
June 2026
“For the first time in five years, the invisible line between neighbor and stranger had been crossed.”
Summer Mornings on the Balcony
Late last summer, I spent a lot of time on our back balcony in the company of my daughter’s French bulldog. Morning coffee, afternoon tea, reading, listening to podcasts, tending to my plants—all of it with the little beastie girl by my side. I created an outdoor living room with cushions and rugs, a cozy place to pass the time while Will was away in France visiting his parents.
The Chair
Across the alley lives a woman whose balcony faces mine. For years, we lived only a few metres apart, silently noticing each other without ever speaking.
I knew she liked plants. I often saw her tending to them—repotting, rearranging, moving some into the shade and others into the sun. Her balcony stood out from the others that served mostly as storage spaces. It felt cared for. Alive. That’s about as much as I knew about her.
One afternoon, she called out to me.
We descended our metal spiral staircases—so emblematic of Montreal dwellings—and met on ground level. “I see you like to sit in the sun,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied. “And I see you like plants.”
Then she held up a folding chair, and offered it to me. Taken aback, I thanked her sincerely. I assured her I would make good use of it
We exchanged names, and for the first time in five years, the invisible line between neighbor and stranger had been crossed.
A Quiet Appreciation
For nearly a year, I carried a quiet appreciation for that unexpected gift. Not because the chair was valuable, though I did notice it was rather nice. The gesture was what stayed with me.
We hear so much about loneliness these days. About how disconnected people have become. Yet connection can happen in the simplest ways.
Returning the Kindness
When warm weather returned this spring, so did Cynthia’s plants.
Around the same time, I found myself looking at a pothos I had grown from cuttings over the winter. I had painted the terracotta pot by hand and made a macramé hanger for it. As the days grew longer, the vines spilled over the sides and began cascading toward the floor.
I knew exactly who I wanted to give it to.
One afternoon, I spotted Cynthia on her balcony tending to her plants.
I took down the hanging ivy, watered it one last time, and whispered a quiet goodbye.
A few moments later, I stood on her balcony for the first time, surrounded by the plants I had admired from afar for years. “I wanted to tell you how much we use that folding chair,” I said. “It comes to the park with us all the time.”
Her face brightened. “And I wanted to give you this.” I handed her the plant. “I grew it from cuttings and painted the pot.”
She held it up, admiring the trailing vines. Then she noticed the macramé hanger. “Do you want this back?”
“No,” I laughed. “It’s for you.”
The View Has Changed
From my balcony, I can now see a new addition to her little garden.
We still know very little about one another. We are not close friends. We may never share more than a handful of conversations. Yet something has changed.
The invisible line between neighbour and stranger has softened.
For years, we lived only a few meters apart, each tending our own little corner of the world. Now, when I look across the alleyway, I see more than a beautiful balcony full of plants; I see Cynthia.
And that may just be our way of creating community—not through grand gestures or organized events, but through small acts of care exchanged over time.
A chair. A plant. Two neighbors finally meeting.
Reflections
Stories from everyday life that remind us what it means to live slowly, notice deeply, and cultivate connection.
I Didn't Want to Be a Lifer in the System
A reflection on freedom, work, travel, and choosing a slower life.
Every winter, Will and I leave Montreal for warmer climates. You might call us snowbirds, though people usually associate that lifestyle with retirement. We are far from retired.
People often wonder how we’ve sustained this way of life for more than a decade. Some assume we must be secretly rich. But we don’t have what most people consider wealth. No car. No house. No inheritance. Only modest bank accounts.
What we do have is a different kind of wealth. We have the luxury of living on our own time. For us, that is freedom money can’t buy.
“We have the luxury of living on our own time.”
Our get-rich-quick scheme has simply been to strip away much of life’s excess so we can focus on what truly matters.
My transition into what we now call slow living began in 2012, when I resigned from my short-lived career as a high school teacher. Some colleagues were shocked that I would walk away from a tenured position with excellent health benefits and a comfortable retirement plan through the New York City Department of Education. Others admitted they wished they were brave enough to do the same.
For me, it felt simple. I didn’t want to swap my life for job security. I didn’t want to be a lifer in the system.
“I didn’t want to swap my life for job security.”
Ironically, those years in NYC were also the highlight of my ten-year teaching career. What I remember most are my students — especially the difficult ones who nearly made me quit in the beginning. In many ways, they prepared me for the unknown. Because when I left, I had no plan. No job waiting for me. Just some savings, a lot of faith, and a sense of adventure.
Leaving my teaching position also meant losing my work visa, and with it, my legal right to work in the US. So I became resourceful. I worked off the books doing whatever genuinely interested me. Eventually, I married — though not rich. My husband at the time was struggling financially. We lived in a rent-controlled apartment in Brooklyn, and I started renting out our spare room on Airbnb to supplement our income and fund our travels.
The life I describe isn’t for everyone. But it suited me. I slowly fell into a rhythm that prioritized more living and less working. I enjoyed finding creative ways to make a living while preserving my freedom and time.
Eventually, our lives diverged. My former husband remained tied to the conventional 9–5 life, while I continued moving toward something slower, freer, and less defined by work.
Then, during a solo winter getaway in 2017, I met Will. And all these years later, here we are… living LA VIE EN SLOW.
For us, slow living isn’t about escaping life, but rather refusing to abandon ourselves in the process of living it.
A Quiet Life Is Still A Meaningful Life
From busy streets to slow mornings — how I returned to myself
The City Years
I prided myself on being a city girl for most of my life. Throughout my teens, the Parkdale neighborhood of Toronto was my playground. Growing up in the inner-city gave me a certain confidence, toughness, and if I’m honest, a bit of bravado for what was to come.
When I started university in Montreal in my late 20s, the bilingual city didn’t give me the same rush I was used to. It felt more like an oversized town than a metropolis capable of holding my big-city dreams. Instead, I set my sights on New York City. When my teaching career eventually brought me to The Big Apple, I finally felt at home.
"Back then, I associated movement with meaning."
Back then, I associated movement with meaning. Busy streets, crowded restaurants, packed subways and full schedules— I loved all of it. I loved seeing my agenda filled with appointments, whether professional or social – work meetings, dance classes, cultural events, picnics in Central Park. Even the daily commute excited me. Squeezing onto the L train gave me a strange sense of belonging, as though I had finally earned my place in the city I had romanticized in my youth. The hustle and bustle made me feel alive. Or perhaps, more accurately, it made me feel important — like an extra on a film set helping bring the scene to life.
The Shift
"At fifty-five, I find joy in morning light, unhurried evenings, and a life no longer dictated by clocks and calendars."
It was surprisingly effortless to ease into the slow lane, even in the concrete jungle. My Brooklyn apartment became a haven despite the constant hum of nearby highway traffic, because by then I had already begun cultivating a sense of peace within myself — physically and spiritually. That inner calm not only helped soften the chaos of the city, but it also muted the inner critic that said this slower pace of life held little value and significance.
The opposite proved to be true.
My life has come full circle. As I approach my fifty-fifth year, I am comfortably settled back in Montreal, deeply appreciative of life’s quieter pleasures: morning light through the kitchen window, evenings without plans, long walks by the river, caring for my plants and the slower rhythm of a life no longer dictated by clocks and calendars.
The Quiet Life
“I’ve become the main character in my own quiet story.”
From the outside, my life looks quite uneventful. There are fewer social obligations in my calendar now, fewer work appointments filling my weeks, and fewer attempts to keep up with the pace of the world. And in that slowing down, I have never felt more content. The slower my life has become, the more deeply connected I feel—to myself, to the people I love, and to what truly matters.
I’m no longer the extra on the film set. I’ve become the main character in my own quiet story. Now I know that a simple life can hold just as much meaning — perhaps even more — when it is rooted in presence, peace, and self-connection. And this inner connection, although still a constant work in progress, feels like a beautiful return to my soul.
Slow living is soulful living.
What does slowing down mean to you?
Continue the journey
If these reflections resonate with you, you may enjoy our gatherings at La Vie En Slow — spaces for rest, presence and slower ways of being.