Join me for the next chapter of the story in the early fall.
Finding That Flamingo
So, how did I go from navigating the world solo to finding Floyd, you wonder? You already know where our paths intersected—now, this is the story of how—the journey, when—the moment, and why—the purpose.
After nearly a decade of chasing horizons across the globe, I found myself stirred to the core—marveling at wonders that defied imagination and diving into adventures that left me exhilarated, wide-eyed, and wide open. The world had unfolded in breathtaking variety, and I had never felt more alive—waking each day to a blank canvas, brimming with endless possibilities of what to see and do. And with every new horizon, came encounters with cultures unlike my own, each offering a new way through which to see the world—to connect, to find joy, to live differently. And that changed me. Travel became not just a muse, but a mirror—reflecting the parts of myself I had yet to truly know or understand. It gave me a space for reinvention that the comfort and conformity of home never did.
And I was grateful—for where I was, and for where I had come from. Grateful for the small town that taught me resourcefulness and wholesome values—qualities that proved invaluable along the way. Grateful for everything I had learned as a homeowner, a business owner, and a partner—skills and insights that, as it turns out, would come in handy later. And I was even grateful that those things had been taken away. Because in their absence, I found my way back to where I was always meant to be—becoming the person I was always meant to become. With each step forward, my stride grew lighter, my direction clearer, and my path more certain. And with every new horizon, I was invited to discover what stirred my soul—and to uncover who I truly was.
And my road to discovery stretched out before me, offering a rich tapestry of opportunities for exploration and growth. I found myself evolving—walking with greater confidence, making choices with more conviction. And this should be the moment in the story when the girl is confident enough to stay grounded in what she’s doing and where she’s going—and when the universe puts her to the test, she passes with flying colours. But sadly, it isn’t. Instead, it's the moment in the story where her journey took an unexpected turn, after returning back to Canada for a visit—and somehow, I losing her footing, and with it, her way.
Why didn’t I continue down the open road stretched out before me, you wonder? The path that had been transforming me, filling me with joy and purpose? That's good question—because before my visit, I had every intention, of returning to it and moving forward. Well, the answer to that question begins with these questions—from puzzled friends and family that went something like this:
“Aren’t you scared, traveling alone as a woman?” “ "Don’t you get lonely?”
“How can you afford it?” “What about buying a house, saving for retirement and making smart investments?”
“What are you trying to escape from?”
" Why go around the world just to visit tiny towns—especially when you come from one?”
“Why veer off the beaten path instead of sticking to big cities and famous landmarks like everyone else? Wouldn’t that make things simpler? Cut down all that extra planning?
The questions were easy enough to address.
“Well, sure—the odd time. But not very often, and far less than I ever did in the big cities here at home. As a solo female traveler, I find that fellow travelers and locals alike are often quick to offer a helping hand to a non-threatening young woman traveling alone.”
“Loneliness? It happens occasionally, but it’s not as isolating as you might think. There’s always a community of fellow wanderers eager to connect. And again and again, the locals I stay with welcome me as one of their own—treating me like family, keeping an eye out for me.”
"Money is a concern—but less so than here at home, where rent and car payments weigh heavily. I make it work by being mindful: staying longer in one place to get better rates, cooking my own meals whenever I can, and honestly, the best things to see and do are often free—or cost very little at all."
"I'm not escaping from anything. I love what I'm doing."
"Because every tiny town is uniquely different from my own—with a different culture, a different landscape, a different way of life. And those are the opportunities to step into another person’s shoes and world. To truly get to know the place and the people. And there really isn't a whole lot more planning involved. In fact, when I loosen my grip on rigid plans and fixed expectations, I make room for chance encounters that often lead to the most memorable experiences. And while famed landmarks do have their merit, I have come to realize that the greatest rewards often lie beyond them—on the road less traveled. That is where the extraordinary, unparalleled, one-of-a-kind experiences happen."
My answers were every bit the truth I knew—no wishful thinking involved. I understood that the questions came from a good place—rooted in care, concern, and simply stemming from a lack of first-hand experience. They echoed the mainstream narrative—the one that so often confines and steers us through fear and doubt. And yet… even knowing all of this, the questions lingered. They nestled into quiet corners of my mind, filling them with uncertainty—with second-guessing.
Was I seeing things all wrong?
Had I just been lucky—naïve, even—when it came to safety?
Was I refusing to admit I was lonely?
Was I spending my money wisely?
Was I running from something?
Should I have stayed on the beaten path, like everyone else?
Were those the places people actually wanted to hear about?
And to finish answering the initial question—why didn’t I continue down the open road stretched out before me? Well, it turns out that even after seven years of travel and transformation, and all the confidence and self-assurance I had gained, I still didn’t know how to truly listen to my own voice—to give it precedence, to offer it the attention and weight it deserved. And I hadn’t yet learned how to fully follow my heart and quiet my mind, which loved to stir up doubt, as minds do. So, with those inner traits still underdeveloped, my path became vulnerable to a temporary shift—off the road less traveled and onto the beaten one—where I thought, perhaps, my friends and family would feel more assured, and where I wondered if it might be the more sensible path to take.
Even though, deep down, I already knew it that wasn't.
And deep down, I sensed that my friends and family had been reassured by my responses—that I was traveling the path I was meant to—even if they never said so aloud.
Even so, when my journey abroad resumed, I found myself staying in big cities and visiting famous landmarks—like most travelers. And for the first time in my life, I felt truly lonely. Ironic, really, to feel so isolated while surrounded by so many people. But here’s the thing: genuine connections with local people and fellow travelers were harder to find and forge in the city. Most locals were swept up in the relentless pace of urban life, and the travelers I encountered felt more transient—focused on scratching the surface, snapping pictures, and ticking off boxes of must-see sights rather than immersing themselves in the culture and the full experience. And ironically, despite the convenience and infrastructure of the cities, I found myself planning even more. Sure, I could get to certain places faster by bus or train—but the thing is, those weren’t the places I truly wanted to go. The ones that called to me were remote and unique, offering authentic, one-of-a-kind experiences far beyond the reach of regular transit routes. They were the kind of places that often required a long walk or bike ride, and spending the night in a nearby village.
And in one final twist of irony, it was then—eight years into my travels—that I felt most like a foreigner. Because, for the first time, I found myself actually running from something: the travel and adventures that I loved—and the version of myself that I was becoming while living them. But I should’ve seen it coming. And if I’m being truly honest with myself, I did. I’d been down this road before—briefly—and I knew exactly where it led: virtually nowhere. It was a congested, gridlocked road with little flow and no meaningful forward movement. Along it, I moved mechanically past structured landscapes—hard pavement beneath my feet, towering skyscrapers casting long shadows over me. But within that congestion, I realized there was still hope. Because long ago, this very road had once led me to veer off and find my own path—the one filled with happiness and childlike wonder. The path where my days were spent crossing wooden bridges over rushing rivers, stepping into ancient forests, rocky caves, and abandoned ruins in search of buried stories and treasures.
Perhaps, if I were fortunate enough, it would lead me there once again—and if it did, then this time, I would know with unwavering certainty that it was it was meant for me. And I thought to myself how wonderful it would be to be guided back there—if it truly was my path. And how lovely it would be to have a friend walking beside me—to share the journey, and help me find my way.
And that was the story of why my flamingo appeared.
And this is the story of how and when.
That night, my thought took root quietly but firmly—and by the next afternoon, it had begun to bloom. The city woke as it always did, with horns blaring, sirens wailing, and a relentless hum pressing in from every direction. It all felt like an echo of the restless night before—the same echo that had carried through mornings for weeks. Crowds hurried past in tight formations, faces taut with tension, moving with a kind of rhythmic urgency that felt choreographed by exhaustion. But this morning would end differently than those that came in the weeks before. Something different—yet fabulously familiar—was on the horizon. That particular day, when the clock struck twelve, something made me wander. It was as if my thoughts fell silent—just for a moment—as though an invisible force was gently pulling me forward. I had no idea where it was taking me, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t mind. It simply felt good to be out of my head for a while—to let the city noise dissolve, and to allow something else to lead, if only for a moment.
And before I knew it, my steps had carried me beyond the structured city walls and into an open horizon—untamed, vast, and alive. My surroundings shifted: the stillness of traffic gave way to a flowing breeze; the artificial asphalt faded into an unpaved, natural path; and the towering structures receded, replaced by a sweeping tropical expanse where sand met sea. And with that shift in my surroundings, something within me shifted too. I felt more like myself again—free to simply be me. Now, to the unseasoned traveler, I may have seemed lost—but I knew that I had more direction now than I’d had in quite some time. And that was what truly mattered. I also knew that I was following something I hadn't followed in quite some time—my intuition and my heart—and that that felt fabulous.
I did not yet know how to name the unseen forces that were guiding me—but that would come in due time. For now, what mattered most was that I was following them and acknowledging how good it felt. As I walked further into the magical setting where sand met sea, a new story was unfolding—threading its way through the waves to the shore, into the sand beneath me, and into the soles of my feet. In this chapter, the pelicans played a part—puffing up their pouches as I walked past, making me chuckle at their bold antics and reminding me of a fond childhood memory: one particularly daring pelican chasing my brother and tugging at his swim trunks, setting off a ripple of laughter from me and my parents. And dolphins, too, joined the cast of characters—leaping through the waves as I looked out over the sea, their exuberance stirring something deep within me and unlocking a memory of a winter break spent as a child, playing basketball with dolphins at a marine park near my grandparents’ home—a time when I felt as happy as I can ever remember feeling.
As I wandered along the shore, the dolphins’ whistles rang through the salty air—almost as if they were applauding some unseen spectacle. The pelicans snapped their beaks in spirited assertion, as though they too were celebrating an invisible performance. Waves of insight and clarity were rolling in. The dolphins, with their playful energy, sparked a revelation: that everyday play isn't just for childhood—but should be a vital part of adulthood, too. And the pelicans, with their bold antics, nudged me not to take life so seriously, and to laugh a little more often. Waves of insight and clarity were rolling in with the tide. Then the sea, ancient and knowing, whispered like a sage, “Welcome back to your path.” And with that, a sense of certainty hit me like a tidal wave.
And as I anchored myself there in the sand, I no longer felt lonely. Instead, I felt deeply connected—surrounded by a diverse array of seaside inhabitants who graced me with their presence. Even the famously anti-social hermit crabs had emerged from their shells—although perhaps it wasn’t to say hello, but to watch the invisible show. Nevertheless, I was grateful to be among them—to feel welcome in that shared moment, where I felt like an integral part of the setting, contributing, in my own quiet way, to the rhythm of the beach. And with that feeling, a new seaside creature graced my presence—making a grand, theatrical entrance, as if he were both the star of the invisible beach performance and the star in my story.
There it was, in its fine, flamboyant form, flailing about in a frenzy of expression—almost as if dazzling an audience like a showman mid-performance. And I was completely captivated by its striking, iconic pink plumage and its animated personality, full of charisma and charm. In that moment, some cherished childhood memories surfaced—one from a favorite storybook of mine, where I recalled the clever and comical role flamingos played in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, teasing the Queen of Hearts with their exaggerated movements and expressions, adding to the whimsy of the tale; and another of watching flamingos on the beach during a childhood vacation, where I’d been thoroughly amused by how puzzled they looked while bobbing for food, and how elegant they looked striking poised, one-legged yoga poses—creatures somehow both graceful and goofy.
And with that appreciation for their originality, I felt inspired to embrace my own authenticity—and perhaps even to celebrate it. This magnificent creature in front of me stood tall, unapologetically radiant. And I should too.
Then, as if magnetized by my gaze, the extraordinary being—moving with otherworldly grace—drifted closer. And with a sudden, slightly stunned look on its face, it smiled, a glimmer of puzzlement and wonder in its eyes, and said, quite unexpectedly, “Well, hello there.”
“What are you?” it asked, tilting its head with wide-eyed curiosity, its feathers shimmering in the sunlight like sparks of magic.
“A human,” I replied, uncertain if that was the answer he was looking for—or if this surreal little interaction was even really happening.
“Well, you must be Robinson Crusoe, then,” he said, an excited smile stretching across his face.
"No, I’m Bree,” I replied, amused by his reference. “But I am an adventurer—very much like Robinson."
“I am Floyd—The—Fabulous Flamingo,” he proclaimed, fluffing out his feathers with theatrical grandeur. "And I’d like to go on an adventure with you!”
“Um… sure,” I replied, perplexed—wondering if I’d officially lost my grip on reality, or if my imagination had possibly run that wild.
"Well then, follow me,” he declared, fluffing out his feathers even further, as if ready to take flight.
Following That Flamingo
And that leaves us with the what. The "what " I followed my flamingo to. The better, more exciting and rewarding part of the story.
Once the shock wore off, and I decided it didn’t matter whether I’d lost the plot or not, I let the excitement settle in as we set off into the sunset, headed toward the adventure ahead. And with just a few small steps in, Floyd—barely able to contain himself—launched headfirst into his signature Floyd–The–Fabulous material: a dazzling array of swamp tales, quirky fun facts about its lively inhabitants, and animated recollections of the mentors who had shaped his journey. He spoke with enthusiasm about the parrot who had taught him the art of entertainment—ensuring his stories would always captivate, transforming them from simple swamp-side tales into show-stopping seaside spectacles. And he spoke with great reverence of the turtle, the wise navigator who had taught him how to chart great distances, guiding him from the soggy swamp all the way to the salty sea.
“What will we do tomorrow, Floyd?” I wondered aloud.
Which, of course, elicited a fascinating fun fact and a hilariously witty reply.
“Well!” he began. “Did you know that flamingos shut down half their brain at night while the other half stays awake?”
I laughed at the absurdity, half-convinced he was pulling my leg—until a quick Google confirmed he wasn’t.
“And that,” Floyd continued with a clever grin, “means I can think it over and plan tonight… while you—and part of me—are asleep.”
That sent me into uncontrollable laughter. What a character I had for a companion! And what a blessing he was. With him, I felt free to be silly—in fact, my part pretty much called for it.
“And maybe,” Floyd mused aloud, “on our way to tomorrow’s adventure, you could teach me some fun facts about humans—and tell me your story?”
His eyes lit up. “I’d love to learn some new material!” he said, bright-eyed. “That might be the secret ingredient that takes me from seaside spectacles… to stardom!” he declared with dramatic flair, striking a pose as if the world were already watching.
“And perhaps we could even write our own story,” he continued ambitiously. “And in it, I could be the star! The hero!” he proclaimed.
“Just like the turtle in the epic tale of The Tortoise and the Hare!” he added, practically vibrating with excitement. “And of course, you’d be the co-star... and the heroine,” he said with infectious enthusiasm.
As requested, the following morning I shared a few things about humans that I thought might pique Floyd’s curiosity, and I told him my story—starting the day with a fun fact to set the tone.
“Did you know Floyd, that the human brain generates enough electricity to power a small light bulb?
“Which means…” I continued, returning his clever grin, “I can offer the half of you that stays awake tonight a complimentary nightlight, while you do your planning,” I added slyly.
“Darling, I knew you were bright—but I didn’t realize you were literally luminous,” he responded without a second to spare.
I giggled, proud of myself for coming up with a clever fun fact that doubled as a rebuttal to his—though I realized I had some work to do if I wanted to keep up with the likes of him.
As I shared my story with Floyd, he smiled wide at the mention of fun times and wild adventures, leaning in with sparkling eyes and a smile wide with delight, asking questions with genuine curiosity—eager to keep the magic of those moments flowing. And as I spoke of the not-so-enjoyable stretches of the journey, Floyd fell silent—his smile softening into something more reflective. In that quiet, he recognized his role in the story—his chance to step in and become the hero he’d always dreamed of being… and the one who could help me become the heroine I was always meant to be. From my story, he sensed strength and determination. But he also picked up on something else—a quiet clue, a missing piece that kept me from fully stepping into the role of heroine—and he, into the role of hero: a touch more confidence, conviction, and balance.
And those? Oh, he had in spades.
Confidence? He practically radiated it—strutting through life like the world rolled out a red carpet for his arrival (which, to be fair, it sometimes did). Conviction? Please. With his unshakable poise and unapologetic authenticity, that came as naturally as breathing. And balance? That was his party trick. A self-certified master: standing tall on one long, lanky leg, juggling a half-asleep, half-awake brain every night, and somehow always landing on just the right amount of fun to make every day feel like a story worth telling.
Floyd grinned from ear to ear, already envisioning the headlines heralding his heroism—turning over potential titles for his tale.
"You know, when I tell my grand heroic tale one day," he said with a wink, "I'll need a name upgrade—something with more punch, more pizzazz..."
"How about Floyd—the Fabulous—Facilitator?" he mused, daydreaming of the stories that would ripple through the swamp and echo across the sea—tales of the great teachings and invaluable guidance he would bestow upon this human.
"Or... the Whimsical Wizard!" I offered, matching his dramatic flair.
We both smiled, proud of our clever titles. And as Floyd walked beside me, I thought about how lovely it was to have someone to share the journey with—and to help me find my way. And with that thought, it dawned on me: this flamingo friend strutting at my side might just be the very companion I’d wished for. That someone I'd wanted to walk with me, to laugh and have fun with me, and to help me figure things out.
It has to be, I said to myself. It’s too perfectly timed to be merely a chance encounter. Plus, flamingos are specialists when it comes to synchronicity… aren’t they?!
I chuckled at the hilariously bizarre—yet undeniably perfect—pairing, realizing that it hadn’t occurred to me sooner that he was the companion I'd wished for, because I had expected it to come—if it were to—in a much different form.
And then I doubled over in uncontrollable laughter, recalling that when I’d imagined this friend, I’d envisioned someone tall, dark, and handsome.
But what I got instead was long, pink, and quirky.
And in every sense, this comical companion was exactly what I needed.
Now, back to the heroic tale unfolding...
Floyd—being the Whimsical Wizard and Fabulous Facilitator that he was—helped build my confidence by teaching me how to tune into my intuition (or as he liked to call it, “the flamingo feeling”) to know what was truly right for me. And he showed me how to embrace my uniqueness—just like a flamingo does in a flock of pigeons. It stands tall. It shines bright. It doesn’t try to blend in—because it can’t, not with its bright, bold, beautiful colours. He taught me how to have conviction—by trusting wherever my "flamingo feeling" led me. Floyd also taught me how to find balance—how to infuse just the right blend of fun and flair into every single day. And here's the thing: Floyd allots more weight to fun and flair, to balance our scale. Because to him, fun isn’t merely important—it's essential. A foundational pillar of Floydian philosophy.
Given its importance, let’s focus on that—good old-fashioned fun! And Floyd, in all his formidable fervency, knew exactly how to have it—and exactly how to lead me back to it. Being the astute flamingo that he was, he’d taken careful note of the things that made my eyes light up when I spoke of my journey: remote villages, hidden ruins, abandoned castles, mystical forests, magical creatures, untold stories and uncovered treasures. And just like that, he hatched a plan—to lead me back to those mystical and magical places with exhilarating, one-of-a-kind experiences that lit up my soul and unveiled the richest, most radiant feelings within me. And naturally, to further fuel the fun factor, he sprinkled the journey with fascinating fun facts and fanciful fables—insightful, whimsical, and sometimes delightfully absurd.
So, off we went—into the wilds of wonder, wandering through mystical landscapes, chasing stories guarded by magical creatures and seeking treasures enshrined deep within hidden and long-forgotten lands. And instantly, my childlike sense of awe was rekindled—like a spark catching fire in my soul. I felt as though I was stepping through a portal, transported back to my childhood days and childhood ways—where magic and enchantment filled the air, and where every day revolved around one simple, joyful pursuit: having fun.
And these places welcomed me with open arms—offering what felt like a personalized invitation to explore. Upon my arrival, I was greeted by a warm-hearted crew of magical creatures bearing welcome gifts: stories laden with unsolved riddles and clever clues, as if they'd been waiting just for me. And soon, after I arrived, the skies suddenly cleared, giving the sun room to shine brightly—revealing ancient ruins glistening in the distance, almost as if they were summoning me. So, with that warmest of welcomes, I began to wonder: were these the very places that had been calling to me all along? Whispering to me as a child, sending gentle nudges through the years, and arriving at my doorstep with one destructive push that set me free to find them.
Now, I have to give credit where credit is due—because Floyd had a few fanciful, feathery ways for finding these places… even though I was starting to suspect they were finding us first. Nevertheless, we tapped into Floyd’s vast network of avian connections and consulted his list of top-tip travel destinations—passed down from his most trusted, well-traveled friends. And these weren’t just any feathery friends. They were seasoned explorers, renowned for uncovering the most magical and mysterious corners of the world. Creatures woven into countless legends and tales, known by a nickname steeped in ancient wisdom—and yes, we’re talking about none other than the enigmatic owls, of course. Also known, as the Guardians of Sacred Knowledge. And lucky for us, they shared some of that sacred knowledge with Floyd, entrusting him with the whereabouts of two extraordinary places—each brimming with unique treasures and unusual tales.
(That’s the perk of having a flamingo friend—he’s got ties to the inner bird circle, complete with a flock of high-flying affiliate buddies and their insider avian intel.)
The first stop on the owls’ enchanted shortlist did not disappoint. It was a land so spellbound, it might have drifted from the pages of a fairy tale— where granite hills rolled like waves beneath ancient trees, secret gardens slumbered under canopies of emerald-green leaves, mysterious ruins peeked from the underbrush, and ornate castles and intricate, timeworn temples stood guard in the mist.
“This is where the great Knights Templar once resided,” Floyd intoned, his voice thick with reverence. “A place where they left their mark upon the land—through stories etched in stone and treasures buried deep beneath the earth.”
“And this,” he continued, mystery flickering in his eyes, “is where they still breathe—where their esoteric tales are said to drift through the misty air, whispering to those who know how to listen. And where those deemed wise and worthy enough, are guided to their cryptic treasure map carved into the stonework of these very ornate castles and intricate temples standing before us.”
The second destination was every bit as spellbinding as the first—yet entirely its own kind of magic. A place so otherworldly, it felt mirrored from a dream. Where a mysterious mountain stood at the foot of a mystical village, crowned by an enchanting temple, surrounded by rugged peaks and towering cliffs that seemed to watch over it. And shimmering waterfalls glistening down its sides, seeming to making it shine.
“This is where the mighty Aztecs once roamed,” Floyd said, his wide, gleaming eyes seeming to catch the shimmer of something just beyond sight. “A place they believed to be sacred,” he continued. “So sacred, in fact, that they stored their gold and holy relics within it.”
He spoke of legendary quests—tales passed down by locals and retold to curious tourists—of the treasures still hidden somewhere within. Then, as his voice dropped to a whisper and his gaze turned inward, as if peering into a realm just beyond my vision, he added:
“There are other stories too—stories the locals keep close, shared only with those who’ve earned their trust. Coveted narratives of ancient guardians, and of hidden passageways and tunnels within the mysterious mountain, revealing themselves only to select seekers—those deemed trustworthy enough to keep its secrets.”
Absolutely enthralled by the unusual phenomena surrounding the sacred village, I asked Floyd if he would lead me to more. He smiled, proud that he’d piqued my interest, and—using his tried-and-true technique—guided me to an extraordinary place, shared by his most revered avian friends. And these weren’t just any ordinary feathery friends either. They were seasoned treasure hunters, known for tracking down the most rewarding adventures—creatures who also starred in myths and fables, known by a nickname steeped in esteem. As you guessed, we’re referring to the honorary eagles, no doubt—also known as the Messengers of the Gods. And lucky for us, they shared some of those messages, entrusting us with the whereabouts of an extraordinary place, marked by rare phenomena and its exceptional tales.
And things not only looked magical here—they felt it. As if the air were charged with an invisible zest that made me feel lighter on my feet and made it easier to breathe.
“This is where the eagles soar,” said Floyd, pretending to soar himself but with much less “aerodynamic necessity” and far more “look at me, I’m fabulous” flair.
“Invisible magical currents fill the air here,” he continued, “sending a surge of sensation through their wings, drawing them into an endless, enraptured dance across the sky.”
“I feel it, Floyd,” I remarked. “And it feels fabulous.” (Knowing he’d love that I chose that word to describe something so grand.)
“It does, doesn’t it?” he replied, launching into his own enraptured dance with exaggerated enthusiasm and elegance—equal parts ballerina and toddler on a sugar rush.
“Well then, let’s dance our way to another, shall we?” Floyd said, eager to lead me to the next enchanted, energetic enclave, his wings flapping to a silent symphony.
This time, the recommendation came from furry friends—his favourite— feisty, fun-loving beings, much like himself. The playful creatures who spent their days enthusiastically sliding down riverbanks, juggling rocks, and inventing games with one another purely for the joy of it. So it won’t come as a surprise that they’re the expert fun-finders, known for discovering the most playful of adventures—creatures who also make cheerful appearances in children’s storybooks, known by a nickname steeped in magical merriment.
I’m referring to, quite obviously, the outgoing otters—also known as The Gleeful Gliders.
“Here, the river is strangely soft and silky,” Floyd remarked, eyes closed, feathers swaying gently as if flowing in a nonexistent breeze—for maximum visual impact, which he proudly refers to as the ‘Floyd Effect.’
“I get it,” I grinned playfully, gently swaying my hair from side to side as if it, too, were flowing in that same nonexistent breeze.
“Now let’s go find what secrets and stories these creatures have to tell,” Floyd announced enthusiastically. So we climbed—effortlessly, it seemed—to the peak of a mountain to speak with the soaring eagles above, then drifted freely alongside the otters in the river below. And to our great fortune—or rather, thanks to Floyd’s remarkable synchronism—an exalted elderly eagle recognized him from a past visit to the neighbouring swamp. And a bright-eyed otter paused mid-swim, starstruck upon hearing Floyd’s name—suddenly realizing he was in the presence of none other than Floyd-the-Fabulous, the famous flamingo he’d heard tales of from the otters upstream.
Our connections soon blossomed into a growing bond with the eagles and otters. And before long, they began to trust us with their most guarded secrets—stories passed down through generations like sacred heirlooms, rarely shared beyond their kind. With each secret and story, it felt as though hidden doors to hidden places were appearing before us. The venerable eagles, with their exceptional, almost prophetic vision, guided us to a trail we couldn’t see—until we were standing on it. Then, as if summoned by our presence, it unfolded beneath our feet, taking us onto concealed mountain passes that led to long-forgotten sacred sites, said to hold ancient treasures lost to time. The bright-eyed otters, brimming with joy and ambition, led us through a camouflaged underwater entrance that opened into a secret labyrinth of tunnels, winding toward primordial caves that shimmered with arcane symbols etched into their walls—cryptic clues said to point to a hidden trove. And as we swam, the otters enthusiastically pointed out butterflies along the way— who had found their own secret way inside.
(That’s the perk of having a “celebrity” flamingo for a friend—he’s got connections that come with a backstage pass to the greatest secrets and stories. )
“Did you know,” he asked as we journeyed on, “that an eagle can spot something as small as your shoe from five kilometers away?”
“Well, as long as it can’t smell them,” I replied.
Floyd nodded proudly at my quick rebuttal, as if it were the result of his own clever coaching.
“And otters,” he added, “store food—and their favorite rocks—right in their armpits.”
“Hmmm,” I mused, leaning back in thought. “With tricks like that up their sleeve, maybe they had been carrying the treasure under their arms the whole time—right alongside us—playfully leading us on a wild goose chase.”
He nodded in approval again, amused by the idea, his eyes twinkling with the quiet satisfaction of watching his efforts bear fruit.
As we journeyed along these off-the-map paths, Floyd began to tell his heroic tale—one adventure at a time—with what felt like a secret lantern tucked in his satchel, casting a golden light on the path ahead with every word, fun fact, and fable. I joined in, adding my own pages to the tale with equal spirit, realizing just how much richer the adventure became when it was shared with flair. Floyd narrated the story right up to the moment we were living—in what felt like a final chapter. In it, he spoke proudly of how his fabulously focused guidance had equipped the human with confidence, conviction, and balance. How she now knew—with unwavering clarity—what she was passionate about, how to find it, how to follow it, and how to prioritize it. And how she was now trusting herself, her path, and the universe—not just in theory, but in practice. She was making decisions and taking action by following her flamingo feeling, unshakably knowing that it always had her best interests at heart.
"With her foundation strong and her feet firmly planted on her path, she would now lead herself—again and again—into the world of childlike wonder, where every place held a portal to another realm, and every day shimmered with magic and mystery," he claimed, carrying on narrating his final chapter as if he had prophetic vision, like the eagle—knowing exactly how my story would continue to unfold.
"These particular places will never feel lonely or foreign to her, because they feel like they’re part of her—waiting for her to continue her story with them, as though they’re an essential piece of each other’s unfolding tales.
Her days will become one grand, evolving adventure—where anything and everything feels possible, and where each sunrise holds the promise of joy and discovery. She’ll explore ancient caves and ruins adorned with prehistoric carvings and inscriptions, wander through abandoned castles and forgotten temples with hidden passageways and staircases etched with symbols. She’ll hike steep ridges and misty peaks, bike alongside rugged coastlines and pristine white-sand beaches, and paddle through glassy lakes and enchanted rivers—to reach forgotten lands safeguarding their secrets, stories, and treasures.
Because... that’s what she loves to do."
And as I listened, I thought to myself—this is one heck of a tale for Floyd to tell. And I smiled wide, thinking of the tale that I could tell— about following the furry and feathery friends of Flamingo, followed by the fun-loving, fable-forging, fun-fact-firing flamingo— a fabulous, feathery friend of my own.
And now… doesn’t that make for one heck of a tale for me to tell?!
