July is the month we say goodbye to writers who are retiring or moving on to new adventures, and this is Natasha’s last post. She has been writing with us since August 2021.
After eight years and a handful of states, I’m back in the Midwest—full (almost) circle. I’ve set up “shop” in Madison, Wisconsin—across the pond and just a couple states shy of Grand Rapids.
I was so occupied with missing Canada that I forgot to miss the quirks of this neck of the woods. They’re well worth missing, though. I forgot about fireflies and the delightful tricks they play on one’s eyes: nature’s neon yellow optical illusions. I’d forgotten those fleeting, beautiful storms through which you need sunglasses and windshield wipers simultaneously.
I had cause this week to remember kayaking on Reeds Lake, some eleven or twelve years ago, in outdoor recreation class. We were learning wet exits—purposely capsizing over and over, simulating danger in the midst of calm. On Sunday I unfolded my new kayak on the shore of Wingra Lake, assembled my paddle, and set off across the lilypad-studded surface. Presently I noted a susurration, above and below; had my kayak been inflatable I’d have feared a leak. As it was, the culprit was a forest of watermilfoil brushing the hull below while a breeze purred through the deciduous forest above.
Ducks congregated on a half-submerged slab of concrete which should have looked out of place but didn’t. They preened furiously, fastidiously. I leaned, wobbly in the unfamiliar craft, attempting to help a water skipper back into the water whence it came. I didn’t manage the feat, but not a minute later he sprang out of his own accord. Then another took his place, simulating calm in the midst of danger.
Madison is stunning. There’s no shortage of friendly pedestrians on the sidewalks and trails, and I’m already onboard with the cheese and ice cream obsession. Some of the houses in my neighbourhood look as though they’ve been summoned here from Europe—or perhaps a fairytale. The illusion is particularly bolstered by those surrounded by a riotously, exuberantly unruly garden complete with ivy hugging the door frames. Sometimes the wildest garden abuts the most exactingly fastidious lawn, making me wonder how each neighbour feels about the other. I personally love it; the former puts me in mind of C.S. Lewis among the hedgerows of England and Ireland, and the latter of my Dad among his perfectly straight lawn lines on the outskirts of Calgary.
A lot has changed since I was here in the Midwest, graduating from Calvin with a double major in writing and environmental studies (because I just couldn’t make up my mind). I met and married my husband—half a decade ago this month. I lost my grandfather and my teenagehood dog. I welcomed a dog of my own. I added some letters behind my name and dabbled in a few career-type positions. Parks and Recreation is no longer on Netflix for my study breaks.
A lot has stayed the same, too. I still take study breaks; I’m still on the academic calendar. Writing and environmental studies (or, rather, their junction: science communication) is still where my “deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”1 I work at a beautiful, sprawling, exciting university campus. I look forward to every trip to Canada. I relish reading while curled up with my dog and a mug of milky tea. I’m graduating from the post calvin. It has a nostalgic, bittersweet flavour, like a full dark chocolate circle.
1Buechner, F. (1973). Wishful thinking: A theological ABC. Harper & Row, New York.
Natasha (Strydhorst) Unsworth (‘16) is a science communication researcher and practitioner working on her Ph.D. at Texas Tech University. Natasha hails from Calgary, Alberta. Some of her favo(u)rite authors are C. S. Lewis, Francis Collins, and Bill Bryson. Her favourite earthly place is the Canadian Rocky Mountains, and her favourite activities are reading and enjoying the great outdoors—preferably simultaneously.
