FIELD NOTES Newsletter by Meghan J. Ward

Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. A whole other season could have gone by, and we might have missed it. It was an ordinary Saturday when I ventured under my deck to install a lock box for the key to our shed. I scanned the support posts to find a good spot, marked the screw holes with a pencil and was about to start drilling when something flitted in my peripheral vision.

"Water lapping. Wind rustling. And the next thing we heard was the raw, reedy cry of an elk bugling. The higher tones carried upriver, and I sat up straight, my eyes scanning the banks." Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. Slowly, serenely, we paddled up the ribbon of turquoise blue.

We’ve slid into May and, apparently, April escaped me like sand through my fingers. Alas, I did not get my Letters Home to you last month. But I’m here now, just two days into this new month, when I’m greeted by morning birdsong, a snow-free forest floor, and the hope of spring seeping into my pores. April took my family over 8,000 kilometre…

About 25 minutes north of Paris lies Senlis, a beautifully preserved medieval town once home to early French monarchs. Here, narrow cobblestone streets wind past centuries-old limestone buildings — boulangeries, fromageries, brasseries, and bistros. Wisteria climbs walls and door frames painted yellow, crimson, and every shade of blue.

Dear Readers, In Old Ways: A Journey on Foot, author Robert Macfarlane describes the treacherous Broomway trail — a 600-year-old path that runs for 6 miles off the coast of Essex, England. Being an offshore trail, safe passage can only be found at low tide. Even then, in misty weather, a weary traveller might lose sight of shore and start to walk in the wrong direction. A walk out to sea almost certainly means death.

Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. We’re nearing the shoulder season here in the Rockies — a time of year when every day gets a wild card for weather. One might be clipping into bindings for spring skiing in T-shirts or lacing up hiking boots for an early-season hike. One day, the streets run with runoff from melting snow; the next, there’s a blizzard and the feeling that true Spring is a long way off.

A sticky, humid morning greets me on our porch in Roatán, Honduras, as White-winged doves call from nearby trees. The ocean is flat-calm, the palm-trees stock still. From my perch above the grounds of this home we’ve rented, I can observe the world anonymously. It’s early enough that only a faint pink paints the horizon. The sun will blaze through soon; for now, I sit in that rare window of calm and awareness before activity fills the day, conversations begin, and the world around me becomes louder.

Dear Ones โ€” Iโ€™ve been curious lately: what connects us to a place? What gives us that pang inside, whether itโ€™s as familiar as our childhood home or that sudden, indescribable shift when weโ€™re travelling and find ourselves feeling moved by a place we stumble upon? Some people have transformed their lives based on that shift โ€” moving cross-country (thatโ€™sโ€ฆ Keep reading with a 7-day free trial Subscribe to FIELD NOTES with Meghan J.

Fieldlings are short stories and essays inspired by nature, infused with the wisdom of the great outdoors. Eighteen years ago, my then-boyfriend (now husband) Paul and I went on a month-long backpacking trip in the Caribbean.1 Our journey took us to the British Virgin Islands, Saba, Dominica, Sint Maarten, and Antigua, where we camped on beaches, in people’s backyards (with permission), and in the dripping-wet rainforest.

Several years ago, a friend introduced me to the idea of choosing a one-word theme of the year. It’s a way of focusing one’s goals while providing an easy reminder of what we’re aspiring to accomplish in the year ahead. I’m cringing somewhat as I write the word “accomplish” because I’ve become rather allergic to the language of productivity. Yet, without goals, I often feel adrift.