Fall Equinox 2026: Migrations & Peregrinations

I feel like a migrant myself this equinox. I didn’t have far to travel, a few kilometres, but still an undertaking in the city where I live: to downsize, pack up, move a decade-plus life, unpack again. I’m still settling in, still getting to know new neighbours, new gathering places.

I keep happening upon hidden corners, hidden openings.

Like this proper rose garden (just a piece of it in this picture), sheltered with hedges, planted by someone, off of an alley, on the edge of the river valley. I go by there often just to see.

The boarded-up drycleaners near me where someone has left a pot of sunflowers by the front door. A touch of beauty rising over cracks in the cement.

Or the graffiti I found one morning walking under the south side of the High Level bridge, against the abutment, filled with vibrant, urgent calls to social action.

Sometimes there are openings hidden in plain sight that take someone else to point them out. The other day as I was walking down 100th Avenue behind a group of young people (obviously from out of town), one of them cried out, “Look at all these big trees! They have so many big trees here!” And indeed we do have a massive tree canopy in Edmonton, especially in the older neighbourhoods. One Hundredth Avenue is lined with heritage elm and black ash.

The valley path near my home is strangely quiet this time of year, quiet of people and quiet of birds but for the migrants. One afternoon I happened upon a lone birder who had spotted a rare tanager: bright red, yellow and black on the wings. Another afternoon I was surprised by a small flurry of warblers, song sparrows and juncos darting back and forth overhead, probably busy feeding before the next leg of their flight. A few steps on, someone has labelled a patch of trees “Invasive Species” in orange ribbons. But even here, in the most unlikely of places, in the middle of the city, there are openings to the more-than-human world.

Downtown Edmonton is full of For Lease signs as are many cities. Ever since the pandemic, ever since the opioid crisis exploded, ever since the houseless population tripled here, many are afraid to come downtown. I choose to live downtown, For Lease signs and houseless people, all.

A few times this summer I’ve found myself walking along 104 Street, one of the city’s historical promenades. These days it’s home to three-star hotels, a bus station, numerous condos (highrises and lofts), funky eateries and other small businesses. A few times now someone has asked, not for money, but for food: a burger, a chocolate bar, a coffee or a pop. Sometimes they’re pushing a cart looking for bottles or carrying their home with them, sometimes new to town. Our paths cross. We exchange some words. It’s like the sidewalk opens up and another world emerges. We go into the little hole-in-the-wall convenience store by the bus station. The proprietor recognizes me now. I tease him about his Slurpy/Soft Ice Cream sign. I’m an ice cream person but they can only run one machine at a time on their premises. Almost every time go in, the Slurpy people have won out.

What emerges out of the cracks in the cement, out of empty space, out of boards over windows? Real community: beautiful and open to vision. Empty space is liminal space. And I want to embrace it. At this time of migration there’s an opening between seasons, between worlds. There’s potential here. New horizons.

These empty buildings; these anonymous gardeners; these young artists asking questions; these people, some very troubled, without a roof or a bed at night; these entrepreneurs who are trying new things in our core. The world is moving all around us.