Lost in the Woods: A Sentimental Soul in a World of Progress

​There’s a quiet ache I carry sometimes, a gentle tug-of-war between the world as it is and the world my heart seems built for. We live in an era of relentless progress, of ever-accelerating change, where the next big thing is always just around the corner. But for a sentimental soul like me, it often feels like being adrift, a relic in a sleek, modern machine.

​I look at a towering skyscraper, a marvel of engineering and ambition, and while I can appreciate the ingenuity, it’s the initials carved generations ago into the bark of an ancient maple tree that truly capture my imagination. Each letter a whisper from the past, a fleeting moment of connection etched into something living and enduring. Those aren't just marks; they're stories, testaments to young love, friendship, or simply a moment of being. They speak of permanence in a way no glass and steel structure ever could.

​My soul, it seems, is fed by the quiet reverence of the natural world. Give me a forest, with its dappled light, the scent of damp earth, and the symphony of rustling leaves and chirping birds, and I feel an immediate sense of belonging. Too much of anything else – too much noise, too many people, too much concrete – and an undeniable anxiety begins to creep in. It's a feeling of being overstimulated, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of "new" constantly demanding attention. The forest, in contrast, asks for nothing but presence, offering solace and perspective in return.

​There's a peculiar comfort I find in the forgotten, too. I've spent hours in old cemeteries, not in morbidity, but in quiet contemplation. There's a therapeutic rhythm to cleaning a weathered headstone, gently scrubbing away moss and grime to reveal a name, a date, a small epitaph. It's a small act of remembrance, a way of honouring a life, however distant, and connecting with the continuity of existence. Each stone is a miniature monument to a story that once was, a life lived in a Canada that has long since transformed.

​I used to chase the ladder, the corporate climb, the shiny markers of success that society holds up as the ultimate goal. The idea of "progressing" in my career, reaching higher echelons, once held a certain appeal. But somewhere along the way, that allure faded. The thought of scrambling for another rung, sacrificing the quiet moments, the forest walks, the connection to tangible history, just doesn't resonate anymore. The view from the top seems less appealing when the journey up feels like a constant battle against my own nature.

​And yet, the bills still arrive. The mortgage still needs paying. The world, in its pragmatic wisdom, demands participation. So, I find my own compromises. I try to infuse my work with purpose, seek out moments of quiet amidst the chaos, and protect the sanctity of my sentimental spaces. It’s a delicate balance, this dance between the heart that longs for the past and the reality that insists on the future.

​Perhaps there’s a strength in being a sentimental soul, a quiet rebellion against the relentless march forward. Perhaps in cherishing the old, the natural, the deeply human, we offer a vital counterpoint to a world sometimes too eager to forget where it came from. And maybe, just maybe, that’s a kind of progress too.

​I'd love to hear if any of you feel the same pull! Share your thoughts in the comments below.