The beauty of a sunset lies not only in its colours but also in its ability to evoke emotion. It signals the close of a day—a quiet invitation to reflect, let go, and find peace. Whether viewed from a mountaintop, a beach, or a rooftop, sunsets remind us of the vastness of the world and our small, yet meaningful, place within it.

Beyond their visual splendour, sunsets carry a certain power. They represent change, transition, and the passage of time. In many cultures, sunsets symbolize endings that are not final, but rather a part of the cycle of life—each day concluding with the promise of a new beginning. They inspire poetry, music and art, capturing the hearts of people across all walks of life.

Perhaps what makes sunsets truly powerful is their universal appeal. No matter where we are in the world, everyone experiences the sun’s descent, making it a shared moment of beauty. In a world full of distractions and noise, sunsets offer a daily opportunity to reconnect—with nature, with others, and with ourselves.

Sunsets are quiet, magnificent reminders that even endings can be beautiful.

We towed our vintage boler and camped in Stanhope (PEI), Chéticamp (NS) and finally stayed at a very lovely cottage in Mahone Bay (NS). At each of these spots, we spent many hours driving slowly along the coast, past little fishing harbours with weather-worn piers and previously colourful huts on stilts. I guess I’m in the stage of life where I go into the water as much as possible even if it’s cold. I never regret it.

This was the least scheduled trip we’ve had. Other than booking our campsites and cottage, all of our days were unplanned until the day before. This meant we had agility to respond to the weather, new-found interests and recommendations from locals.  Some of the best moments were when the sky was clear blue, the tide was out and golden kelp was laying over the contours of rocks, shimmering in the sunlight. Add a picnic basket and a sketchbook to a day like that and I am one very happy person.

This body of work will continue to grow as I return to the East Coast for more inspiration and adventures this year and in years to come.

Amidst the instability of this world it brings me peace of mind to know these Precambrian rocks are immovable in my lifetime. But, they haven’t always been here. Before they arrived in what we call Northern Ontario they were in the centre of the earth. The water of Georgian Bay is a constant thrashing against this rock face and yet it remains as solid as could be.

I didn’t ever imagine myself creating a series called “North of Here”. In my mind, this idea had already been perfected by Tom Thomson and it was pointless to re-imagine what he already imagined so beautifully and brought to fruition so completely.

And yet, here we are. The pandemic has affected each of us uniquely and collectively and (for better or worse) we continue to respond in ways that we never anticipated. Like so many other land-locked Canadians, I’ve headed out to our Northern Ontario woodlands and lakes to find something that was missing. Was it merely the need for a vacation? Maybe.

Or, maybe we needed to be surrounded by trees.
Submerge our human bodies into bodies of water.
Hear our feet brush against pines needles.
See a bear.
Make friends with Chippy, the resident rodent.
Glide over the surface of a glassy lake.
Bear witness to the ongoing lives of massive rocks.
Be humbled by powerful wind.

In the winter, when we were booking our campsites, I didn’t know that we would do all of these beautiful and life-giving things and that I would be so impacted by the experience. I didn’t know that I would want to tell a visual story about our fierce Ontario landscape. And, I didn’t know how much I would see myself, my story, our collective human story reflected in the strength of the land.

We are weather-worn, resilient, steadfast, standing strong, alone, unified, willing to bend in wind, still here, but not broken.

We are the land. The land is us.

♥ Jennifer

Against a crisp, bright blue sky, I venture out along a path that follows the creek.

This particular day seems as though it’s in between seasons. Birch trees are bare, save for a few yellow leaves still clinging to their branches and rustling in the breeze. A crunchy layer of snow is under foot and the creek water is what I like to call “thick”; on the verge of ice, not frozen yet except for the edges, which have formed a white crust. This water seems to flow more slowly, as if, at any moment, it will stop moving altogether, mid-stream, suddenly becoming ice. When water is in this shifting state, sometimes I like to watch it, to see if I can catch the precise moment of transition from liquid to solid. But, water is slippery and won’t easily give up its secrets.

The forest is able to hold many complex ideas at once. In one hand it holds remnants of summer in bright, green carpets of moss, sun-kissed and optimistic. In the other, crunchy, fallen leaves are piled under foot and around swaths of snow; a warning of a soon-coming time of ice and quiet sleep and a simultaneous reminder of warmer weather not long ago. I imagine the forest an intelligent being, with large, open hands, ready to hold onto or let go of any season at any moment, holding tension and complexity together, all at once, with grace and beauty.

As the saying goes, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. In this way, the forest comes into clearer focus when I lean in to the learn the lessons.

This is no simple task. I must slow down. Bend my ear. Listen. Really listen.

At times I’ve been moving too quickly to hear anything but my own breath. Slowing down takes practice. This means I must head to the forest more often. This is quite alright with me.

Walking in the woods near my home, slowing down and observing tree bark, I learn not to make assumptions or to lean on previously acquired knowledge. The forest isn’t interested in stereotypes and seems quite unconcerned with any expectations I may place on it. I take the hint and try to follow suit.

I’m often surprised by what I see. I have discovered that trees can appear purple, mauve and blue more often than they appear to be brown. It’s possible that yellow birch leaves will be blowing in a winter wind and I’ve witnessed fresh, green ferns poking through banks of snow. These things can happen all at once, in the same day, on the same trail. I’ve learned, like the forest, to carry my expectations in open hands and I allow them to blow away on even the slightest breeze.

Did you know that a dry forest can be very quiet while a wet forest can be very loud? The forest taught me this a few weeks ago while I was painting by a silent and bone-dry Louth Falls.

In times of abundance, some of the forest bursts into growth while other parts drown and die from the same water. Water is life. Except for when it is not.

All living things in the forest are infinite, growing and then returning to the soil … and then growing again, becoming new over and over again. Brightly striped mushrooms bursting out of a fallen tree remind me of this.

Sometimes, but not always, ferns have a very lovely scent. I never miss an opportunity to put my nose in to check. They peek out of cracks and crevices.

Bright green moss blankets the north side of all things and provides a very soft cushion for sitting and sketching in the woods.

I used to think rocks were the strongest until I realized what water does. Waterfalls, creeks and streams carve pathways through rock, revealing their shared stories. I long to be more like water, both strong and adaptable.

Enormous boulders have fallen into waterbeds forming a landscape that speaks of the time before time.

I try to practice the art of wonder.

While observing the beauty around me, I take photos for future reference so I can create a painting in my studio later on.

I scamper down large rocks and wade into streams with my rubber boots to find the perspective that I like. I’m looking for long shadows, sparkling water and sunlit foliages. When viewing a painting, I want you to feel as if you are there, in the water and on the rocks. Fully immersed in the forest.

As is so often the case, the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know. With every visit to the forest near my home, I observe newness. Fresh growth. New tensions. Recent death. Transformation. Rebirth.

This precious Carolinian forest, holds a lifetime supply of lessons and, with each visit, I am filled with gratitude for the beauty of the woodlands and waterways near my home.