Curious Travels

Here in Ontario, the first colors of fall are beginning to show. A staghorn sumac leans at the edge of the path, its branches tipped with red. Across the hills, the maples are shifting too—some already glowing a deep crimson, others just beginning to blush with lighter tones.

Today, rain falls softly, and a veil of fog hangs low over the land. At first glance, the mist makes the distant trees look faded, almost hidden. But the longer I look, the more details reveal themselves: a yellow tree shining like a lantern, a cluster of red leaves glowing faintly through the fog. Instead of standing apart, the colors blur and blend into the forest, becoming part of a vast, living mosaic.

Even the city itself feels transformed. In the distance, the tall towers of Toronto rise faintly above the treeline, half-swallowed by cloud and mist. The skyline seems to dissolve into the forest, reminding me how nature and the built world share the same horizon.

What strikes me most is how the act of simply looking—really looking—changes what I see. A quick glance shows me fog, rain, and shadow. But patience reveals infinite layers: the way wet leaves deepen in color, the curling edges of a branch, the delicate symmetry of sumac, the blurred silhouettes of towers beyond.

And this is what makes the fall of Ontario priceless. It is so intrinsically beautiful that it cannot be measured, bought, or sold. Its value is not in rarity or possession but in presence—the gift of being here to see it unfold.

It’s easy to rush through life, our minds leaping ahead to the next task or destination. But mornings like this remind me that beauty is endless, waiting in the quiet details. All it asks is that we slow down long enough to notice.