Fifth Journey Day 2: Map I Didn’t Need

Date: May 10, 2025
Location: Victoria, Canada

I spent the late morning at the Abkhazi Garden, a quiet, sloping space carved into the hillside, part cultivated, part surrendered to the rhythm of moss and rock. It wasn't big, but it unfolded slowly. The paths curved without urgency, and the stonework had seen better days, but it had softened up just enough to feel like it had exhaled.

There were rhododendrons in bloom — not showy, but there all the same. It was a light pink that made the morning's chill feel like a distant memory. I found a bench near a shallow pond, where the water hardly moved except when the wind traced its fingers across it. My sketchbook was open longer than usual. I didn't rush. Just small studies: the angle of a petal, the shadow beneath a fern, the shape of water as it recedes from a stone.

I barely said a word. I just wanted to say thanks to the woman at the entrance who gave me a folded map and nodded like she already knew I wouldn't need it. She was right. I didn't want to navigate. I wanted to drift.

There's a special kind of peace that comes when your surroundings don't expect anything from you. No explanations, no cleverness, and no expectation to respond. It's just an invitation to be open to new ideas. I just let the garden pass through me. And in return, it gave me some quiet lines. Pale greens. The sound of gravel underfoot. I had this feeling that time had stretched, thinned, and then wrapped itself around me like a shawl.

Later, back near the harbor, I noticed my hand still smelled faintly of graphite and moss.

It's interesting how some days leave behind a visual memory, and others a tactile one. Today was the latter.