I spent much of my life searching for “home.” When I was a journalist, I had to move every few years and I found myself getting frayed. Though I made friends, I always knew those connections were probably temporary. When my husband Michael and I moved to Knowlton, Que., we immediately knew we had found home. We didn’t know anyone, but something about the place connected with our DNA.
Our first Christmas in Knowlton, we attended the Christmas Eve service at St. Aidan’s, this tiny chapel that became the inspiration for the fictional church in my books. During the service, we exchanged peace-be-with- yous, and the two men in front of us invited us to a potluck after the service.
When we arrived, we walked into a house full of people who would soon become our friends. It felt as if they had saved a place at the table for us. The whole village was waiting for us, and we had been waiting for them. When I write about a fictional village in my novels, I try to capture the feeling of living in Knowlton, where there’s a constant sense of belonging, no matter the language, skin colour or religion. I’ve lived in several places and discovered that what matters most is having friends to talk to. I could live in a garbage bin if I had a friend beside me, in the next bin over.
C.S. Lewis wrote that we can create situations in which we are happy, but we cannot create joy. It just happens. For me, joy often arrives in silence, in stillness, in nature. When I am at my home in Knowlton, I’m filled with joy and gratitude. There’s a profound sense of place.