It was a golden autumn afternoon in 2014, as the leaves whispered their farewell to the trees, I stood near my home outside Wakefield, splitting firewood in the crisp, fragrant air. The rhythm of the axe against the wood felt timeless, simple, and right. And in that moment, a question arose, as soft and insistent as the breeze: Why does life need to be more complicated than this?

At the time, I was a self-employed graphic designer, tethered to a desk and a glowing screen, watching my trade flicker like a dying candle. My partner, Marisa, spent hours each day on a wearisome journey to and from a nursing home in Ottawa, her commute devoured by idling cars and endless bridges. Both of us were adrift in lives that no longer fit, yearning for something simpler, something true. Though we hadn’t yet spoken it aloud, the dream of a new path had been stirring in us for years.

For me, joy often arrived in the quiet hours spent tending to my small city garden, where the soil and I spoke a shared language of growth. For Marisa, it was the memory of her childhood—her family’s sprawling vegetable garden, abundant with life and sustenance, a legacy of her Italian roots. Even after she’d left her family home, she had continued to care for that garden, honoring its place in her story.

As I stacked the firewood that day, I began to dream aloud: a life of simplicity and purpose, where we might live in tune with the seasons, grow wholesome food for others, and find fulfillment in the land beneath our feet. When I shared these musings with Marisa, her eyes lit with the same excitement. Together, we decided to embark on this grand adventure—a quest to find the land where our dreams could take root.

Through the crisp days of fall and into the icy grip of winter, we searched. The lands we visited were often as unforgiving as the season: thin soil over the unyielding bones of the Canadian Shield, or dry gravel masquerading as earth. But then, in the gentle warmth of April 2015, we stumbled upon a treasure—five acres of rich, silty bottomland cradled by Indian Creek in Mississippi Mills. It was here that we would build our tale.

The first years were a trial, as all beginnings must be. The creek swelled and flooded our fields, and we lost our pear trees to fate’s fickle hand. Mistakes were made, and lessons were learned—sometimes the hard way. Yet, we persevered, guided by hope and the whispers of the land, always believing that our worst trials were behind us. Some shadows lingered, true, but each passing season brought us closer to the rhythm we longed for.