Join me for the next chapter of the story in the early fall.
The Follower's Journey
I grew up in a small, picturesque Canadian town, cradled between rolling hills and a shimmering lake, tucked among whispering pines. Life there moved with a quiet, steady rhythm.
With just 800 residents, it was the kind of place where neighbours waved in passing, every face was familiar, and a deep sense of community touched everything. Lending a hand came naturally, news traveled faster than the wind, and no one remained a stranger for long. The seasons marked the passage of time and shaped the pace of the days.
In winter, the town lay still beneath a pristine blanket of snow, the lake frozen and silent, with only the occasional bundled-up local out shoveling a driveway. And when summer returned, the town awakened—the lake sparkled in the sun, lawns turned lush and vibrant, locals mowed their yards, and children raced down the sidewalks on bikes.
Life there was simple, predictable, and safe—and within that quiet simplicity lived a kind of treasure.
But in all its familiarity and comfort, my hometown always felt like the opening chapter of a much larger story—the gentle prologue to an adventure I hadn’t yet begun. Something stirred within me, a quiet restlessness, a yearning to know more, to see more, to discover what waited beyond the hills and the lake I’d always known.
And then one day, at the ripe age of eighteen—freshly minted as an adult—opportunity came knocking: a phone call from an aunt with an invitation to come live with her. It was a chance to experience somewhere new, somewhere different, with less of a predictable rhythm to life. A place not so governed by the seasons, and where not every face was familiar. There was more to explore and a broader mix of people—each bringing new hobbies, perspectives, and cultural roots I had never encountered before. It was exhilarating—like standing before a blank canvas, wide open and waiting. And for a while, my world felt bigger, more vibrant, and more alive with possibility.
I stayed for a while, made new friends from diverse backgrounds, learned new skills, and dove into new experiences. Along the way, I earned a teaching degree. But once that degree was in hand, I quickly realized that opportunities for employment were limited where I was, and I began to feel discouraged. That is, until fate stepped in, disguised as a casual exchange and a simple question: “How about teaching overseas?” At the time, I brushed it off with a doubtful, “That’s not for me… I don’t think.” But the idea had been planted. Quietly and persistently, it began to take root—and before long, it was shaping the next chapter of my journey: a new adventure overseas.
A few months later, as fate would have it, I found myself in Southeast Asia—where an entirely new world revealed itself. Lush and otherworldly, it overflowed with unfamiliar scents and vibrant bursts of green and crimson. In the distance, ornate temples rose, their surfaces etched with ancient symbols I felt deeply drawn to. The forests stirred with creatures I’d only known from picture books—elusive, almost magical beings that stirred my curiosity. And the people, draped in bright, patterned garments, spoke in lilting languages that drifted through the air like unfamiliar melodies—songs that I longed to understand. It felt like stepping into a scene from a foreign film—vivid and enchanting, a place where I felt unmistakably alive.
I’ll never forget the moment I laid eyes on Angkor Wat. In that instant, a world within a world seemed to crack open before me. It was magnificent—majestic and mysterious. Gazing up at its towering stone faces and moss-covered walls, I was struck by a sense of awe. As I wandered through the camouflaged ruins—down crumbling corridors and along vine-draped paths—I felt a childlike thrill, as though a centuries-old treasure map had come to life and I’d stepped straight into an Indiana Jones adventure. I could feel it in my bones: stories and treasures were waiting to be uncovered (including my very own).
And I’ll never forget the first time I witnessed the spellbinding sight of a Buddhist monk procession—saffron robes flowing as they moved in quiet unison through the temple courtyard. Each hypnotic movement seemingly carrying the secrets and stories of centuries past. I was mesmerized; simply watching them invited contemplation. And in that moment, a cherished childhood memory resurfaced: watching flamingos in graceful procession, their pink plumage flowing in the breeze as they glided in tandem across mirrored shallows—seemingly passing a story down the line with every echoed stride.
Every day in this exotic land was invigorating—full of discovery, wonder, and unexpected delights. Everything felt new and intriguing, brimming with things to see, do, and learn. My invitation to explore remained as open as the day I arrived. I could spend each day visiting magnificent temples or watching the spellbinding processions of monks, if I chose. And still, there was so much more—animals I had yet to encounter, people I hadn’t met, stories waiting to be discovered.
Yet, despite all the joy and possibility that lay ahead on my path, a question arrived—disguised as fate, quietly stirring doubt. “When are you going to go back home and start your real life?” it wondered. At the time, I brushed it off with a confused, “Why can’t I stay?” But the seed had been planted. Soon, I began to wonder if I was irresponsibly postponing the inevitable—and before long, that doubt began shaping the next chapter of my journey: a return to Canada, a chapter without sprawling temple complexes or monk processions, and one marked by far less adventure.
This is the part of the story that’s not so fun to write—the moment where I stopped chasing adventures and slipped back into the rhythm of everyday, ordinary life. Like so many stories, mine followed a familiar arc: I got a job, found an apartment, paid the bills, and stepped into the well-worn script most of us are conditioned to follow. And of course, as so many of these stories go, I felt uninspired—adrift in routine, hollowed by the absence of my spark and the life I’d had abroad.
Years slipped by in that routine—though it often felt more like decades—but the whispers of forgotten legends, untold stories, and the call to adventure never faded. In fact, they grew louder with each passing day. And eventually, it became clear to me: travel wasn’t just a phase—it was a passion, something that needed to be woven into the fabric of my daily life. So, with that realization, I struck a compromise with the conditioning I had grown accustomed to. I would follow a conventional path in Canada—hold a steady job, have a consistent place to call home—but I’d ensure that travel, in some form, remained part of my everyday world. And that’s how the idea of opening a bed & breakfast to welcome fellow travelers—and their stories—was born.
So there I was, living a familiar yet far more personal chapter—welcoming fellow travelers from around the world, listening to their tales of distant landscapes and vibrant cultures. I admired the richness of their perspectives, each one shaped by foreign soil. And in those moments, I traveled through them—immersing myself in their journeys, living vicariously through their stories. It reignited my spark to continue my own adventure, deepening the magnetic pull toward a path that no longer whispered, but nearly shouted: “There are stories waiting for you—and stories of your own still to live and share.”
After many more knocks at the door—passing guests and shared stories—my spark burned brighter. Yet still, I hadn’t acted on the pull, or the shouts urging me to live my own adventure. So one day, as time and destiny grew restless, fate intervened once more. This time, it didn’t arrive as a gentle question or a quiet choice. It came as a wrecking ball—an arrival not marked by a suitcase and a smile, but by the loss of my home, business and relationship. A force that left no room for contemplation and negotiation.
At first, it felt like a tragedy—a sudden loss that left me adrift in sorrow. But in the midst of the pain, a glimmer of hope emerged: an unexpected opportunity to travel again, if only for a few months while my bed & breakfast awaited new owners, giving me the chance to step away, heal, and perhaps even enjoy a little adventure along the way. But fate and destiny had something far greater in store—transforming a three-month hiatus into an extraordinary seven-year adventure. A journey where healing unfolded, where happiness and adventure flourished, and the vast, beautiful world once again became my endless backyard playground.
I had set out with nothing but a small backpack, myself, and a modest budget—but I carried something far greater: resilience and determination born from recent loss. And over the course of my journey, I came to realize that traveling on a budget wasn’t a limitation; it was a hidden doorway. One that opened into the most genuine, soul-stirring encounters no guidebook or pocket full of cash could ever promise. Along the way, I found family, friendship, and solace in the kindness of strangers. And that tiny backpack? It held more than belongings. It held freedom—the realization that I needed so few material things to feel truly full. Just a spirit of adventure and the courage to let the universe guide me—to untamed landscapes, ancient ruins, and all the places I was always meant to find.
In a sprawling swamp shrouded beneath towering cypress trees and thick with velvety muck, where the air carried the heady scent of salt and damp earth, Floyd spent the golden days of his feathered youth. This lush, untamed sanctuary was home to his close-knit flock of fifty-five—flamingos who had staked their claim to this watery haven for generations. Creatures of habit and harmony, especially Floyd’s kin, the flamingos were steeped in rhythm, routine, and ritual. Their days unfolded in a steady cadence—fiercely familiar and staunchly safe. They preened together in perfect unison, foraged side by side, and slept in synchronized stillness, mirroring each other’s movements so flawlessly it felt like a never-ending game of flamingo Simon Says.
And on special occasions—or simply when the mood struck—the flamingos danced. With graceful head-flags, sweeping wing-flaps, and spirited high-steps, their synchronized movements transformed the swamp into a ballroom of blush-toned elegance. For Floyd, it was the highlight of his days—something that broke free from the rigid rhythm of routine. It was lively. It was thrilling. It was just spontaneous enough to make his feathers tingle. And though the choreography was tighter than he preferred—precise as Olympic swimmers gliding in sync—it was a ritual he enjoyed. But what Floyd truly treasured most were the moments he got to lead the dance. He got to be the Simon—the one they followed. And with his dazzling moves and electric energy, he didn’t disappoint—he lit up the front line like a spark in the mud. Deep down, with every feather of his flamingo form, he knew he wasn’t born to follow. He was born to lead.
And deep down, Floyd also knew that he needed more—more chances to dance, more moments to stand out, and fewer days spent following the flock. With each sunrise, the feeling grew stronger—a restless stir in his gut, pushing him to break free and carve out an identity all his own. So, that's just what he did.
A few sun-drenched seasons into his teenage years, Floyd was ready to spread his wings and fly. By then, even the flock had begun to acknowledge and accept his nonconformist, adventurous spirit—a spirit that yearned to soar. And so, the time had come. Fate guided him—one fearless flamingo footfall at a time—beyond the familiar shallows of his childhood swamp and into a neighboring wetland, where a new scent hung in the air and the ground felt different beneath his feet. It was a place where he felt free—far from the synchronized sways and rehearsed routines. A place that carried a quiet promise: that beyond all the pink precision he’d always known, he might finally find a rhythm entirely his own.
And this place—much like Floyd himself—did not disappoint. It pulsed with opportunity, shimmered with possibility, and teemed with vibrant diversity at every turn. Everywhere he looked, creatures moved to their own rhythms in this untamed new world. And Floyd felt a rush of exhilaration at the thought of forging new friendships with these creatures—perhaps with a sandpiper, a frog, or even an alligator. But what thrilled him the most was the thought of the adventures that seemed to beckon him from just beyond the bend. And before long, that vision began to take shape. He befriended two remarkable companions: a wise old turtle and a charismatic parrot—and with their arrival, a brand-new chapter of adventures unfolded before him.
And adventure they did. The turtle led Floyd through his hidden burrows—winding tunnels that Floyd believed were secret passageways to another world. Together, they embarked on scavenger hunts, where the turtle’s uncanny sense of direction always led them to the treasure. And the parrot, ever the showman, led Floyd to secret cliffside caverns—that Floyd called “special sky castles.” There, they played countless rounds of hide-and-seek, where the parrot’s theatrical disappearing and reappearing act never failed to spark joy and laughter. And best of all, as they adventured along, the turtle shared his wise stories—each one carrying a lesson—and the parrot, brimming with enthusiasm, spun his tales with such dazzling flair that Floyd hung onto every word. From the legendary tale of The Tortoise and the Hare, passed down through the turtle’s ancient lineage, to the adventurous story of Robinson Crusoe, passed down from the parrot's great-uncle Poll, Floyd was captivated—his world expanding with every tale that was told.
When Floyd returned to his flamingo flock, he shared the turtle’s tale of great wisdom, skillfully navigating the story with the same precision the turtle had taught him. And when it came to the parrot’s thrilling adventure, Floyd retold it with the same exuberant enthusiasm with which he’d first heard it from his parrot pal—his words soaring, squawking, and sparkling with flair. And his stories were met not with resistance, but with curiosity and wonder—the flamingos sat quietly, listening, learning, laughing, and hanging onto his every word. This excited and inspired him—sparking something deep within. And before long, Floyd found himself dividing his time between his home swamp and the neighboring one. His days filled with new friends and adventures and his evenings filled with sharing the tales, to old friends and familiar faces.
And the best part of the storytelling? These were his very own tales. Not the parrot’s, not the turtle’s—though he cherished their stories and delighted in sharing them. These were stories of his own adventures, told in a voice that was wonderfully, uniquely his—brimming with Floyd flair. And the best part of Floyd’s flair? His signature “Fun Facts” move—sprinkling every story with fascinating nuggets of knowledge that left his flock wide-eyed and grinning. Ones that go something like this: "Did you know.. That turtles have a built-in GPS—and it runs on Earth's magnetic vibrations?! It’s like they drop mental pins on a map made of magnetism. No Wi-Fi, no satellites—just pure prehistoric navigation magic. And now here’s a real shell-shocker—Did you know... That turtles were around long before dinosaurs ever stomped onto the scene?! With over 200 million years of survival savvy, these ancient adventurers are the true grandmasters of the reptile realm.
Drawing his audience in with every fun fact and twist and turn of a story, Floyd learned that he had a knack for storytelling—a natural gift for bringing adventure and wonder to those who listened. And before long, word spread in graceful procession from one flock to the next about Floyd’s enchanting tales—and soon, his audience had doubled in size. With each story and fun fact Floyd shared, his gift for storytelling blossomed. And he discovered just how fabulously he could bring words to life—not merely telling stories, but immersing his listeners in vivid scenes, with rich detail and infectious enthusiasm. His tales made them feel part of something bigger. And as Floyd embraced his talent, his audience grew even larger. He then spent part of his days entertaining at the neighboring swamp, performing not only for his turtle and parrot companions, but for every creature of those wetlands—including the alligators.
And that was precisely when fate came knocking on his door—bearing an opportunity he simply couldn’t refuse. An invitation to a new world. A new stage. A chance to dazzle new audiences. No longer would he perform for swamp dwellers alone—now, he’d enchant beachgoers: playful dolphins, boisterous pelicans, and curious crabs scuttling in for a better view. And as you may have guessed, his transition was seamless. The crabs clacked their claws in applause, the dolphins leapt with joy, and the pelicans threw their heads back in delight. And to grow his flair, Floyd introduced some new material—a splash of swamp humor, with quips about his fabulously feathered flash-mob flamingo flock and the fine art of staying fabulous in muddy waters. Laughter rolled in like waves, and those very quips earned him the illustrious title: Floyd the Fabulous.
Before long, audiences from far and wide flocked to hear Floyd-The- Fabulous' swamp quips, his latest tales, and to behold the magic of a flamingo who refused to be ordinary. And Floyd embraced his new gig wholeheartedly—grateful for fresh adventures in a new land and for the chance to make new beach-dwelling friends, each with their own stories and fascinating features to enrich his growing repertoire of fun facts and fables. But what he was most grateful for now, was the opportunity to unite creatures from different worlds—bridging swamp and shore through humor, storytelling, and shared joy. With every new storytelling adventure, his purpose became clearer: to spread fabulousness wherever he went. And that, he realized, was what he was born to do.
And with that very revelation, his next adventure appeared.
The Flamingo's Journey
This is how Floyd's story—as "that flamingo" in this particular tale—began.
