I believe that when we slow down with a place, paying attention to both the external landscape and what it stirs within us, something reveals itself. The place begins to guide us. Perhaps that’s why we can feel such a strong pull toward certain places. We each have our own unique connection to place, and part of the journey is allowing ourselves to discover what they might have to show us about ourselves and each other.

Last week, I wrote about the heartbeat of San Miguel de Allende. I feel pretty confident that if you find yourself in this pueblo mágico, you’ll feel some version of that heartbeat too. Perhaps not in the same places I did, or through the same people, but in a way that is entirely your own.

What follows are some of the people, places and experiences that became part of my own relationship with San Miguel. If you find yourself there one day, perhaps some of them will pull you in too. But more than anything, I hope you leave room to wander, notice, follow what catches your attention and create your own adventure. The best way to experience San Miguel isn’t to follow a guide. It’s to let San Miguel guide you.

Rather than calling this a city guide, I’m calling it Guided by San Miguel de Allende, because that’s truly how it felt.

A Gentle Note

Before I share, I want to make a gentle note about the importance of knowing who you’re supporting when you travel somewhere. When deciding where to stay, where to eat, what experiences to have and where to make purchases, supporting local people and the local economy matters. Get curious about the places you spend your money and the people behind them.

Guided by San Miguel de Allende

San Miguel de Allende is one of those places that always seems to be in celebration. On many occasions, I would turn a corner and find myself surrounded by colour, elaborate costumes, dancing and celebratory music as a parade wove its way through the streets of centro. I would often stop and just take it all in, watching it disappear down another street as quickly as it arrived. My intended walks would pivot with it, leading me somewhere I hadn’t planned to go and revealing another piece of San Miguel I hadn’t yet discovered.

If you’re staying near centro, you will likely come across these celebrations, and most evenings, you’ll hear fireworks too. A reminder that there is always something to celebrate.

Wandering centro and La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel

Allow yourself to wander and people watch in centro, letting time fade for a moment. Watch the pink stone of La Parroquia come alive as the sun rises. Listen to the hum of life get louder as vendors open their market stalls for the day. Surround yourself with the serenades of mariachis in the evening, reminding those listening that love is worth singing out loud for.

Nieves Artesanales Santa Ana

While you’re wandering, find my favourite ice cream stand at Insurgentes 56 and try some of the local cactus fruit flavours, like tuna and garambullo.

Los Mercados

San Miguel de Allende is full of incredible markets and artisans. Wander through Mercado de Artesanías, where you’ll find shops filled with the work and exceptional craft of master artisans. And please, whatever you do, do not barter. Mercado Ignacio Ramírez is another favourite, filled with seasonal fruit, flowers and local dishes.

For a little adventure beyond centro, I highly recommend Tianguis de los Martes, the sprawling Tuesday market. You can find almost anything there, from clothing and hot food to birds in cages and things you didn’t know you were looking for. It’s vibrant and a colourful glimpse into local life.

Gorditas Doña Flor in Atotonilco

If you make the short trip to Atotonilco to see Santuario de Jesús Nazareno de Atotonilco, I cannot recommend Gorditas Doña Flor, right across from the church, enough. Run by a team of women, this unassuming stand served what was probably some of the best food I had during my time in San Miguel. Their blue corn tortillas are made fresh throughout the day, and if huitlacoche is in season, this celebrated local delicacy is absolutely worth trying.

Citlalli Parra

Citlalli Parra is a Mexican multidisciplinary artist and textile designer whose work is rooted in nature, ancestral knowledge and the preservation of traditional craft. She works with natural fibres, sustainable materials and pre-Hispanic pigments, creating contemporary pieces while honouring the techniques and knowledge of the master artisans she collaborates with.

Her work has taken her to Design Week Mexico and the National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City, with features in Architectural Digest México and Côté Maison Sud, but one of the most special ways to experience her work is in her home studio and gallery in San Miguel.

Citlalli hosts intimate weaving workshops there, where you can spend an afternoon learning some of her techniques and create a piece of your own to take home. Her work is also displayed throughout the space, and you can inquire about available pieces or commission something directly from her.

Since first meeting Citlalli in 2023, she has also become a dear friend, which makes sharing her work here especially meaningful to me. I recently sat down with her for a longer conversation about her journey, her work and the traditions that continue to shape her journey, which I look forward to sharing with you soon.

Book a weaving workshop with her here.

La Cabra Illuminada

Last week, I mentioned sitting in a café and looking up at a pomegranate hanging from the tree above me. This was at La Cabra Illuminada. It’s one of those places to bring a journal or a book, and simply enjoy being there.

Shortly before I went to San Miguel de Allende, I came across a song called Omeñiso by Ignacio Maria Gomez. La Cabra Illuminada is the only place I have ever heard it playing in public.

It was such a small thing, but somehow it made me feel even more connected to that little café. Sometimes there is no need to explain why a place feels special. It just does.

Suki Palomina

Alejandra Armendáriz is the hat designer behind Suki Palomina. Her designs are rooted in a deep connection to materials, craft and tradition, reflected in everything from the materials she sources to the traditional shapes that inspire her work.

When I met up with La Suki in her atelier, she shared stories of her ranch upbringing and what it’s been like finding her place as a woman in a male-dominated way of life. You can book an experience with Suki Palomina to create a custom hat of your own and bring a little piece of ranchero culture home with you.

www.sukipalomina.com

Mestiz

Mestiz is the vibrant design studio of Mexican designer Daniel Valero, whose work pushes boundaries through an expressive use of colour, materials and craftsmanship. You can book a visit to his studio, or experience some of his work woven into the restaurant at L’Ôtel Casa Arca.

mestiz.mx

Casa Caralarga

Caralarga is a textile studio based in Querétaro, Mexico, founded by Mexican designer Ana Holschneider. Working primarily with raw cotton, textile waste and natural fibres, the studio creates pieces that celebrate the natural beauty of the materials themselves.

Casa Caralarga, its sister studio and boutique in centro, was one of those places I wandered into. I ended up chatting with a very kind boutique manager who told me all about Ana, her studio in Querétaro and her work as a designer. The space showcases home décor, handcrafted jewelry and large-scale textile wall hangings, with an inviting courtyard worth taking a pause in while you’re there.

San Miguel is full of these kinds of moments. A place you wander into, a conversation you weren’t expecting. I hope you get to experience some of your own.

La Valise

La Valise is an intimate boutique hotel in centro, with a charming courtyard and custom artwork throughout its rooms. It is operated by Namron Hospitality Group and is not Mexican-owned, something worth noting in the spirit of knowing who we support when we travel.

What makes La Valise particularly special is its connection to artist Pedro Friedeberg. Born in Italy, Friedeberg came to Mexico with his family when he was three years old and went on to live, work and build his artistic career there. The hotel offers a unique opportunity to experience some of his distinctive carvings and artwork up close.

Rancho del Sol Dorado

Rancho del Sol Dorado came to me as a recommendation from Alejandra Armendáriz. Alejandra and her wife, Fabiola, are connected to the ranching communities surrounding San Miguel de Allende, a culture that is very much part of life in this region of Mexico.

What stood out when Alejandra told me about Rancho del Sol Dorado was the integrity with which the ranch is run, from the way the ranch hands are treated to the care given to the horses. She was honest that this isn’t always the case, which made this particular ranch feel all the more special.

I spent an afternoon there with Suki, Fabiola and the owners of Rancho del Sol Dorado, riding horses through the countryside and getting a small glimpse into ranchero culture. I also learned about pajarete, a traditional ranch drink made with fresh goat’s milk.

It’s the kind of place you could visit for an afternoon, but I’d recommend staying the night. Give yourself the time to settle in, slow down and simply be out there.

Bekeb

Founded by Fabiola Padilla, Bekeb is a bar centred around artisanal mixology, creating cocktails that honour the character of the spirits they’re made with. Agave distillates are combined with plants, flowers and roots to create drinks that tell a story of Mexico through its history and flavours.

El Charco del Ingenio

A botanical garden and nature preserve, and the perfect place to wander through shades of green when you need a pause from the energy of centro. Afterwards, stop at the café for an aguamiel, a sweet sap water from the heart of the agave plant. It is non-alcoholic, but once it begins to ferment naturally, it becomes pulque.

L’Otel Casa Arca

L’Ôtel Casa Arca is a design-forward hotel tucked inside Dôce 18 Concept House, owned by Lebanese, Mexico City-based husband-and-wife architect and designer duo Roy and Sally Azar. The space brings together architecture, art and Mexican design in a way that makes it worth wandering through even if you aren’t staying there.

On the main floor, you’ll find a restaurant featuring lighting installations and tableware by Mexican designer Daniel Valero, alongside a boutique showcasing the work of local Mexican artists and designers.

Garambullo

An inviting little café on Ánimas 48 with a charming courtyard that makes you want to stay for a while. I really loved this space and went back a handful of times. Find a spot in the courtyard and definitely try the pan de elote.

Rustica

I really loved this restaurant. Delicious food, a beautiful courtyard and an easy, relaxed atmosphere.

Panina

Really good sourdough bread and pastries. Enough said.

Amapola

Another charming little café with a lovely courtyard. Watch a game of chess, settle in for something delicious and, if you’re lucky, you might find yourself there when there is live music.

Mixta

Mixta is a beautifully curated boutique with a lovely courtyard and a mix of jewelry, clothing, art and home décor to peruse. While the shop is not Mexican-owned, it does showcase the work of many Mexican artisans and designers.

When I was there, I found pieces by Citlalli Parra, along with Agnes, a Mexico City-based brand I had the pleasure of doing a photoshoot with during my time in San Miguel.

Panadería La Buena Vida

On one of my last mornings in San Miguel, Citlalli took me to Panadería La Buena Vida, a tiny bakery tucked away down an unassuming alleyway, for what turned out to be the best pastry I had in San Miguel: a warm guava empanada.

It felt a little like she was letting me in on a San Miguel secret, one she is graciously letting me share with you. If you find yourself there one morning, warm guava empanada in hand, send up a little thank you to Citlalli.

Naakary

Naakary is a very special experience that came to me as another recommendation from Suki and Fabiola. Chef Alexis Torres and pastry chef Roxana Prieto source ingredients directly from their farm to create seasonal tasting menus in a true farm-to-table setting, surrounded by the mountains and countryside outside San Miguel. This is more than a dinner reservation, it’s a true gastronomic experience.

naakary.com

The list of incredible people, places and experiences in San Miguel de Allende is endless. These are simply some of the ones that became part of my own connection to this very special place. If you find yourself there, you will surely discover your own.

There will always be more streets to wander, more people to meet and more stories to discover.

Thank you, San Miguel, for this journey into the heart.

Until next week,

Jo

Sitting beneath the Parroquia as the sun sets, listening to the mariachis serenade, a pink glow envelops this town in the Bajío mountains. It would be enough to go to San Miguel de Allende for the cobblestone streets, massive old doors that make you stop and wonder what lies behind them, the endless courtyards, colourful buildings, bustling markets and cactus fruit ice cream. But if you listen closely, this town will reveal something deeper—a heartbeat beneath the chest.

Listen to the audio version.

Its pulse seems to travel through endless layers of Earth to reach those who might just be ready for some heart medicine. Apparently, I was. No matter how much I attempted to point my compass toward different parts of Mexico, San Miguel de Allende kept pulling me in (I wrote about this in Dreaming as a Cocreation).

In the first few days, I wandered this pueblo mágico with a deep curiosity for what I was feeling.

Shortly after, I learned that this land is called The Heart of Mexico. Of course.

San Miguel de Allende will invite you to go on a journey with your heart. It will shine a light on the parts that are beautiful and love-filled, the parts you are asking to meet (or maybe life is asking you to meet), and perhaps even the parts that ache.

San Miguel will stretch you, press against the edges that are ready to give, all because your heart, and what lives there, is worth it.

If you’re willing to open your heart to San Miguel de Allende—to hear what this place wants for you, what the land wants to reveal, and meet what it illuminates—it will pour so much back into you.

None of this is a universal truth. My San Miguel will be different than your San Miguel, but this heartbeat found its way into many conversations I had there. I believe we all have our own unique connection to land, that it illuminates something different within each of us, while some of its wisdom seems to be speak to all of us.

San Miguel’s students are there to learn about the heart. Without knowing it, I was sitting at the front of the class.

Over the two months I spent there, San Miguel’s warmth invited parts of myself to step forward.

I felt more seen in San Miguel than I ever had before. The part of my heart that had been asking for this awakened there. Walking down the street one morning, I felt people were truly looking at me in a way I’d never felt. After a month there, some local shop owners began to recognize me, waving as I walked by.

A few weeks after arriving, I received an email from the editor of Milk Decoration magazine asking if I would write and photograph a city guide of San Miguel for their print publication. It was the biggest creative assignment I’d been offered and an absolute dream come true. What I didn’t yet know was how much this project would invite me to step more fully into myself.

The part of me that often shied away from putting myself out there was ready to move those limiting boundaries I had placed on myself. I introduced myself to person after person. Connections and conversations happened with more confidence and flow. I met incredible people, many of whom remain part of my life today. I was willing to be uncomfortable, move beyond the edges I had created, do something I’d never done before, and say “yes” to all of it. And San Miguel met me there.

One morning, I sat in the courtyard of La Cabra Illuminada, sipping a matcha and looking up at a pomegranate hanging from the tree above me. When I looked around, I noticed I was surrounded by couples. Another light, shining on an ache in my heart.

As comfortable as I had become with my aloneness, a journey that began while living in France, I acknowledged that I didn’t want to do it alone anymore.

Shortly after that moment, I met a man who eventually became my husband. It was the unexpected love story that it sounds like. He was an American who traded one desert for another and found home for a season in that town. Once I left San Miguel, we spent the summer apart, talking every day. I flew back in the fall for him this time, to see what could come of this connection.

The light in my heart must have been bright enough, welcoming enough, because somehow he found his way there. We got married in Canada seven months later. It was a love story I was honoured to be a part of.

I’m writing this story years later, on the same day we enter the next phase of our separation. This isn’t the first time I’ve written about San Miguel, but it is the first time I’ve seen the heart of this story so clearly.

In this full circle moment, I’m learning that even when pain makes me feel as though I’m moving further away from love, joy and beauty, perhaps I’m just moving deeper into my heart, and the love that lives there. My story with San Miguel de Allende is still a love story, just one with my own heart.

I recently told a friend who lives there that I want to come back, but not to change the story. That part of the story is never going to change. I want to add to it.

If San Miguel was a journey into the heart, I want to keep walking that path.

CONNECTION TO PLACE

I recently shifted some of my Rallentare language from “travel” to “connection to place”. What I hope to share is less about things to do and places to go, and more about exploring what the Earth, and her people, might have to share with me as an individual, and us as a collective—when we slow down enough to listen.

That being said, I do seem to have a knack for finding places worth knowing, so in next week’s newsletter I’ll share some of those gems, should you ever find yourself in this heart-centred town.

The rest is your own adventure, your own discovery.

Until next week,

Jo

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STORIES IN THE ARCHIVES

Rallentare

Dreaming as a Co-Creation

I came across Nimmo Bay in 2018. A remote lodge built on floating docks deep in the Great Bear Rainforest of British Columbia, Canada. I was in awe. I scrolled through every page on their website dreaming of taking the float plane to get there, eating fresh-caught fish dockside, and retreating to the floating sauna. Each scene playing out in my mind…

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2 months ago · 7 likes · 4 comments · Jo Concetta

Rallentare

France Taught Me How to Be Alone

I lived in France for a year in my early twenties. I moved far from my friends and family, to a place where I knew no one. Although I wasn’t consciously asking the land what it wanted to teach me yet, a willingness to learn from a place, and from its people, was already very much alive in me…

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a month ago · 6 likes · 3 comments · Jo Concetta

Rallentare

Slow Craft in a Fast World

I look through the lens, my left eye shut as my right focuses on an unfolding scene, a minute detail or a moment worthy enough right now, and one I might want to remember one day…

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16 days ago · 6 likes · 10 comments · Jo Concetta

Time does its own thing through the lens. Not bound to the parameters we give it. There is a spaciousness in that pause. Often, I hold my breath as if the pause is enough to fill my lungs.

Listen to the audio version.

Sometimes the moment passes uncaptured, sometimes the camera is lowered intentionally, but sometimes all of that light turns into something tangible. Isn’t that wild that that’s what film is? Light imprinted. It feels like a small miracle when I think about it.

I don’t think of this every time I take a photo, but I do think about it a lot.

The medium of film has been one of my greatest teachers. A small capsule, somehow holding countless lessons. In my Rallentare introduction, I wrote “I am in no way an expert on slowing down. I am not writing this to teach anything. I am writing this because, in my reflection, it just seems to be the path I’ve been on.” Those words continue to feel true. When I look back at the path I’ve been walking, something really honest emerged when film became a companion.

Presence. Showing up. Integrity. Joy. Our connection to this Earth and to one another. Witnessing the human experience. Imperfection. Beauty. Not giving up. Relationship. Boundaries. Gratitude. Abundance. Humility. Patience.

The themes of the lessons are endless.

For all the beauty film has given me, my relationship with it has not always been an easy one. There have been moments when I haven’t honoured the medium, moments when film didn’t feel like it was enough, and moments when it felt constricting.

I recently finished a personal roll that holds many photographs for future Rallentare shares. The gap between finishing the roll and seeing the scans feels extra long and testing, knocking the loose plan of the stories I want to share out of sync. This past week, film has been teaching me to soften my grip and embrace the pivot.

Perhaps that is why I have such a deep respect for artists who choose a slow craft. In this fast paced world, it takes a lot of fortitude to stand in the slow when so much encircling us says to speed it up, to keep up, while the conditioning toward certainty and instant gratification runs deep.

But here’s the thing with slow crafts, and the artists who walk with them: what matters is felt, not fast.

In my earlier days of shooting film professionally, I would witness this need for certainty often. Both in others and within myself. I would bring my digital camera alongside my film camera as if somehow the guarantee was what was needed. It never was. The digital camera divided my attention, pulling me away from being truly present with who was in front of me. The irony is that shooting film, as well as the end result later on, always lit up something in me that digital never did. Through all the uncertainty, imperfection, and trust required, it always turned out more magical than I could have imagined.

There was a moment with a client when she asked me about film and why I bother shooting it in a digital world. I said to her, “For me, film feels like receiving a hand-written letter from a loved one. It just feels different than a text message.” I watched something in her soften as the feeling of that landed. Because that’s what slow crafts are about—feeling something.

From those early days with my film camera in France to now, I’ve watched a big shift in the resurgence of shooting film. Then, many people couldn’t understand why I would even want to shoot film and most didn’t know you could still purchase film. Now, I’m watching it become the medium of choice across many fields of photography. On the surface, there are some obvious reasons: the nostalgia, the softness, the colours. But I think it goes deeper than that.

In a world that is speeding up, people are reaching for something that feels slower. A balm. An antidote. A bridge to the rhythms of another time. And perhaps even a way to notice all the light around us.

To those who are choosing a slow craft in this fast world, I see you.

Until next week,

Jo

P.S If you have a moment or lesson you’d like to share about your journey with a slow craft, I would love to hear it.

sunrise, blue heron

wandering under the pier

flies into summer

— a haiku

Until next week,

Jo

This photograph was taken in the spring of 2016, while I was living in France. My mom had come to visit, along with her close friend, and we spent a few days travelling through the countryside near Toulouse. One afternoon, we stopped for lunch at a restaurant with a beautiful terrace overlooking the Canal du Midi.

Listen to the audio version here

Docked along the canal was the most picturesque little French boat, with dark wood trim and well-worn rope piled neatly on deck. Dipping in and out of view was its captain, quietly tending to his boat. He wore a striped shirt, suspenders, and a French cap, with a pipe resting in the corner of his mouth. It felt like watching a scene unfold from an old film.

At that point in my film photography journey, I was really inspired by Vivian Maier’s street photography. There was something about the intimacy of her portraits that I longed to create.

As I sat on the terrace, the conversation between my mom and her friend faded into the background while I watched him work. I willed my legs to carry me over to his boat and ask if I could take his portrait, but they refused to move. Instead, I sat there inventing stories. He’ll say no, I thought. He’s probably a grumpy man who will just shoo me away.

Eventually, the curiosity got loud enough. Camera in hand and my heart pounding, I walked over to his boat and cautiously poked my head inside.

“Excusez-moi, Monsieur…” He turned toward me, looking a little surprised.

“Est-ce que je pourrais prendre votre photo?” I asked, lifting my camera and bracing myself for the answer.

His reaction caught me completely off guard. I watched as his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. He straightened his suspenders, stood a little taller, and timidly replied, “Oui.”

I captured his portrait, thanked him, and walked back to the terrace.

The me of today wishes I had lingered a little longer. I wish I had asked his name, learned his story, and stayed long enough for a conversation to unfold. The me of today also has compassion for who I was then and the moment I was willing to walk toward.

This photo, and every time I see it, has become an important reminder not to make assumptions or create stories about how we think something will unfold, because we never truly know.

Listen to the audio version here.

Shortly after I started working there, a man came in, ordered some food, then pulled a copy of the Cereal Magazine Paris City Guide from his backpack. He asked if I’d be willing to sign the page featuring Frenchie To Go. Unbeknownst to him, that city guide was the very reason I applied to work at the café. I, too, had a copy back at my apartment. I loved that magazine—the texture of the paper, the beautiful photography, the thoughtful design. I was so surprised to see someone else holding it and, of course, I happily signed the page.

Months later, in early spring, it was the end of the day at the café. I was head down, focused on tallying the receipts, when someone walked in. For a moment, I tensed. Truthfully, we’d already closed for the day; the kitchen, coffee machine, and register had all been shut down.

When I looked up, I was met by the brightest smile on an incredibly gorgeous person. I was stunned.

Naturally, I fired the coffee machine back up.

He started ordering in hesitant French, his American accent unmistakable.

When I worked in France, I was always mindful not to interrupt someone’s French with English. I wanted to meet people where they were, allowing them to speak French if they chose. If I noticed someone was really struggling, I’d gently offer a hand by saying, “We can speak English if you’d like.” More often than not, I’d watch relief wash over them, mixed with surprise at my sudden shift from one language to the other. But every so often, someone would smile, thank me, and persevere.

I gently offered him that hand and, like many, watched the softening of relief and surprise.

I made his coffee and carried it over to the table by the window. He rummaged through his backpack, set a film camera on the counter, then pulled out something else. In his hands was a small book that looked well-travelled with very worn, rolled up pages.

This time, I did interrupt him. I asked if I could see the book. Actually, I more or less pulled it from his hands.

It was a treasured copy of the Cereal Magazine Paris City Guide—only the second one I’d seen in Paris that wasn’t my own. I flipped straight to the Frenchie To Go page and there was my signature.

“That’s my signature,” I said.

He looked just as surprised as I was.

“That’s my favourite signature,” he said, before quickly correcting himself. “Well... actually, it’s my second favourite signature.” He turned to another page where elegant Japanese characters were inked onto the paper.

It turns out he’d borrowed the city guide for his trip to Paris. We flipped through the pages, sharing stories about the places we’d been and the ones we still wanted to go.

His friend joined us, carrying some meat and cheese from Rue du Nil’s local butcher and cheese shop. I locked the door to the outside world and the three of us spent the next hour chatting about life, film photography and Paris.

When it was time for them to leave, he opened the front pocket of his backpack and pulled out an unused roll of Kodak Ektar 100. Handing it to me, he said, “This is my favourite roll of film. I look forward to seeing what you capture with it.”

This day became a reminder that we are so connected and interwoven in ways we can’t even begin to imagine. The degrees of separation between him and I, between you and the next person you meet, are so minimal. There’s something profoundly beautiful about remembering that.

I took that roll with me to Étretat on the Normandy coast, a place that holds many cherished memories. Every colour photo was captured on that roll of Kodak Ektar 100.

Listen to the audio version here.

Before I moved to Paris, people often asked me, “Why Paris?” The truth was, I had no idea. I was following an intuitive current, one I couldn’t rationally explain. People were also quick to share their perceptions of Paris. Paris was dirty. Too busy. The people were rude. Someone had spent a few days there during their Euro trip and hated it. The commentary went on, but never swayed my decision to move there. I was following something that went beyond me.

Shortly after joining Substack, I began following a travel writer. Recently, she shared a note about reading a story set in Paris, mentioning that she, and I quote, ”hates Paris.” Those words felt startling to read. They unsurprisingly opened a self-reflective door to my time there: the lessons I learned, the people I met, the moments that stretched me, and the beauty in all of it. Of course, we all experience places differently. Still, I can’t help but contemplate a statement like that.

I truly believe we all have parts of ourselves that come alive in different places on this Earth. Certain places draw us closer, inviting us to discover what was waiting to be awakened within us. Through lessons, encounters and reflections, each place offers wisdom we could never have received any other way.

Do we hate a place? Or do we hate what that place is reflecting back to us?

When we travel, do we expect people to meet us where we are at? Or are we willing to meet them in their culture, their language, their way of seeing the world?

And what about the lessons a place offers us? Are we willing to receive them, even when they challenge us? Are we willing to truly witness?

Some places awaken our hearts. Some offer beauty. Some offer really difficult lessons.

Everything is an offering. Our role in that relationship is to be willing to receive it.

France, Paris, taught me how to be alone.

It was the year loneliness slowly became peace in my aloneness.

This was the reflection Paris had for me. Was it difficult? Absolutely. Did that mirror sting sometimes? Without question. But it was also an invitation to truly be with myself.

In that same timeframe, something new entered my life.

My friend Sebastian mailed me a 35mm camera. It took two attempts before it finally reached me, and I couldn’t have been more grateful that he was willing to mail it twice.

I’ll never forget opening the package. Inside was a Canon AE-1, a strap, a couple rolls of film (one was expired) and a small notebook filled with his handwritten notes on ISO, aperture, shutter speed, and some things he had learned through his own journey with film photography.

That camera became a companion as I wandered the streets of Paris. It drew me into museums, onto trains for nearby villages, and to one of my favourite places on the edge of the city—Jardin des Serres d’Auteuil. Film taught me to slow down. Every frame asked for presence. To witness first. To wait for the light. And sometimes, to lower the camera because the moment wanted to be lived instead of captured.

It accompanied me as loneliness slowly became peace in my aloneness. Looking back, that year in France set the foundation for how I photograph and how I, at least try my best, to move through this life.

It also became a medium to witness the people who call Paris home. The lessons of a place don’t just come from the land, they also come through its people. I was continually reminded that while work matters, it will never be at the expense of living, of enjoyment, of play. Every night, the terraces of cafés were filled with friends gathered around food and wine. Most businesses are closed on Sundays because family time is sacred. Conversations are rarely rushed. Simply walking the streets became an invitation to witness an inspiring rhythm of life.

When people asked me about my year abroad after I returned to Canada, I would tell them that France taught me how to be alone.

Over a decade later, I see how much was held within those words and how it has shaped the me I am today.

All photos shared are from my first few rolls of film.

For Reflection

What place has unexpectedly shaped who you are today? I’d love to hear about it.

Listen to the audio version here.

Linnéa’s resilience comes from her ongoing relationship with these tides. It has developed over many seasons and many submersions.

When my breathing finally regulates, I find myself gliding through shades of bull kelp in the gentle sway of the waters. My fins want to propel me forward, but I am not in a hurry. I slow down to see the little crabs the size of my thumb and the colour of cherry tomatoes, clinging to blades of seaweed. Occasionally I look up and see the tip of Linnéa’s fin ahead of me.

As I swim closer, she points to a starfish hugging the rock below and then, without warning, dives into the depths with easy grace. She grabs a sea urchin from the ocean floor in her gloved hand, places it in a net tied to her waist, and then ascends back towards me, skillfully navigating the interwoven blades of bull kelp.

I watch her dive a few more times. She picks up a sea cucumber, a few blades of seaweed, and a couple more sea urchins, leaving most in their world beneath the kelp forest.

As a chef at a local wild resort where I’m photographing, Linnéa is engaged in a most mindful harvest. The land and the waters ask for relationship in exchange for abundance, and it is clear that Linnéa has honoured this request over the years, developing a keen awareness of what is on offer and what is to remain.

Back on the boat, Linnéa reaches into her net of collected treasures and pulls out an urchin. I watch as she opens it, scoops out the uni, and hands me the spoon. It is the first time I’ve had uni this fresh. It is a feast for the senses—salty yet sweet, soft yet textured. One of those rare experiences that feels particularly rich. The remaining harvest will be taken back to the kitchen and prepared for the guests.

The captain pulls up the anchor and turns the boat towards the rocky shoreline where the rockfish frequent. Once we arrive, we drop anchor and then spend half an hour casting our lines and watching an eagle perched in a tree along the shore.

The slow process of casting and reeling as the boat rocks with the tide is peaceful. Linnéa is a natural, while all I can do as I cast is try not to tangle our lines. After throwing back in two rockfish that are too small, she catches a mature rockfish and quickly grabs a net to retrieve and prepare ceviche with it.

Spending this day with Linnéa gave me a glimpse into her intimate connection with this land. “Foraging for mushrooms, harvesting fresh seaweed, or picking berries are not just culinary tasks, but meditative acts that anchor you in the rhythm of nature,” she says.

Some days she is diving for new menu inspiration, while other days she’s receiving a fresh catch from a local fisherman, pickling bull kelp, foraging for mushrooms, or preparing sea cucumber for a guest’s first-time experience.

Her lifestyle demands surrender and relies on connection—relationships with nature and with the locals who have walked the paths and navigated the waters long before Linnéa found a home here. Because Linnéa is curious and willing to continually learn, the land and the ocean offer endless knowledge.

“Ingredients become more than tools. They’re a connection to a place and season, and they transform cooking into a reflection of where we are,” says Linnéa.

In this remote part of the world, Linnéa’s relationship to land and sea comes alive—a way of being that truly flows with the tides.

FOLKLIFE Magazine

This publication is truly something special. Based in Canada’s Gulf Islands, FOLKLIFE tells thoughtful stories about real people, intentionally dissolving the boundaries of time and place so the focus remains on what connects us.

It’s one of those rare publications that feels like a gift when it arrives in the mail. The weight of the paper, the beautiful photography, the pace of the writing—it all encourages you to slow down, put the kettle on, and savour each story. If you haven’t come across FOLKLIFE before, I wholeheartedly recommend spending some time with it.

This article was written in 2024 for FOLKLIFE’s 11th Volume, and features Linnéa LeTourneau, Nimmo Bay’s Chef and Food & Beverage Manager. One of the things that makes Nimmo Bay so special is its commitment to preserving a sense of surprise. Rather than handing you an itinerary, the team creates space for you to settle into the rhythms of your body and the offerings of the surrounding wilderness.

The morning after we arrived, someone from the team told us they had a surprise in store and asked if we’d be open to an adventure. Of course, we said yes.

“Perfect,” they replied. “There are wetsuits waiting in your cabin. Put them on and meet us at the dock.”

A short while later, we climbed aboard a boat with Linnéa and our captain, Sylvia, with no idea what the morning would hold. It became one of those experiences that stayed with me long after returning home, and one I will treasure. The article and photography came from that morning adventure.

Listen to the audio version here.

Dreaming came easily, and I would linger in that air of possibility.

At some point, I stopped dreaming. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Nothing debilitating had happened to stifle that part of myself. It just happened. Years later, during a Tea sit, it struck me with heartbreaking realization how far I had drifted from the part of myself that danced with dreaming.

In the months that followed, I actively brought it into my life again. At first it felt awkward. Dreaming had become unfamiliar, and it took effort. I would write down dreams of travel, photography projects, and clients I wanted to work with, all with an undercurrent of doubt. My rational mind kept wanting to know the steps to get there.

It took practice. And persistence. Eventually, dreaming became exciting again.

One of the dreams I began exploring was spending time in Mexico. I felt an incredibly strong pull toward Oaxaca. I meditated on it, visualized it, and searched for creative ways to make a few months there possible. Yet no matter what I tried, nothing seemed to align.

In the midst of that persistence, I came across a place called San Miguel de Allende, a picturesque town in the heart of Mexico. I remember thinking how beautiful it was. Then I did something that still makes me laugh: I mentally set San Miguel off to the side and went right back to focusing on Oaxaca. I’m sure that earned me a few loving eye rolls from the universe.

A few weeks later, after more unanswered Oaxaca inquiries, San Miguel came back to mind and I searched for live-work opportunities there instead. There was one. I reached out and two weeks later, I was in Mexico.

Before I left for Mexico, I pitched a story to Milk Decoration magazine. A few weeks after arriving in San Miguel de Allende, an email from the editor landed in my inbox. I was being commissioned to produce a story while I was there—the first project that seemed to propel me into an expanded level of photography, not only because of the confidence it gave me, but also because of the credibility. A dream come true. That project with Milk Decoration rolled into two more published stories within the six months that followed.

Looking back, I can see that each step laid the foundation for what came next.

I was inspired by the momentum of that third project, and Nimmo Bay came back to me. Remembering the first time I had stumbled upon it, I wondered if that seed of an idea could become something tangible—if I could actually travel there and produce a story for the publication.

A few months later, I was on a float plane above the Great Bear Rainforest, living inside the very scene I had once imagined.

For the next three days, I was immersed in the wonder of Nimmo Bay. I ate ceviche made with fresh-caught fish on the boat, soaked in the wood-burning hot tub and sauna on the floating docks, swam alongside jellyfish, spent my mornings in the meditation cabin overlooking the waterfall, and shared conversations with the incredibly kind group of people who made it all so special.

Arriving at Nimmo Bay showed me that the journey toward a dream rarely looks the way we imagine it will. The months of dreaming about Oaxaca taught me to be open to the messages, especially the ones I wasn’t looking for. Being in Mexico allowed me to experience what living inside the dream actually felt like. And rediscovering my ability to dream reminded me that it is often the first step toward creating the experiences, opportunities, and life we imagine.

I’ve also come to understand that there are seasons in life that make dreaming very difficult. Survival mode will do that. Grief will do that. And sometimes what we call survival mode is simply a current of constant movement from one outward task to the next. Perhaps the lifeline is in the pause. Dreaming creates the space for both inspiration and the unexpected to find their way to you.

Maybe living inside the dream you once imagined takes six months, six years, or much longer. Let it be a dance. Trust that the steps you’re taking are leading you there.

This journey with dreaming has taught me that the path from dreaming to living inside the dream is a co-creation between you and God, Creator, Spirit, the Universe. It is a step into the often-scary unknown. It is saying yes to life when it’s easier to say no. It is choosing trust. The Universe co-creates with you by illuminating just enough of the path for the next step. It is rarely seamless. More often, it’s awkward, uncertain, and uncomfortable. And that is the practice. Sometimes it leads to the full expression of the dream exactly as you imagined it. More often, it leads to the full expression of the dream in a way you never could have imagined. That is the co-creation.

Reflection Questions

If this story stirred something in you, I’ve included some journalling or reflection questions if you want to sit with it a little longer:

1. Have you allowed yourself to dream lately? If yes, what are you dreaming into existence? If not, is there one small practice you could invite into your life to nurture that?

2. What’s a dream you’ve had, either recently or for some time?

3. Are there any dormant dreams that you feel inspired to reactivate?

4. Has the Universe, Spirit, Creator, or God illuminated something recently that’s now asking you to take a step toward it?

5. Where are you being invited to trust what you can’t yet see?

6. Is there anywhere you’re asking to see the whole path before taking the next step? What’s one small step you could take toward that dream today?

7. Where are you being invited to say yes, even though no might feel easier?

8. Is there an unexpected chapter of your life that you’re especially grateful for because it unfolded differently than you had planned?

9. Can you think of a time when what felt like a detour became part of the path? How might that experience help you trust the one you’re walking now?

Listen to the audio version here.

In early 2024, I spent four months in the Sonoran Desert, just outside Phoenix, Arizona, for the first time. It was a landscape I had yet to discover. I was staying with my husband’s family in a neighbourhood characterized by meticulous front yards, a lot of concrete and the “All-American Dream”. My solo mornings were often spent wandering the neighbourhood, avoiding the over-fertilized parks, trying to find some sense of myself in this environment.

One morning, I crossed the bridge over the canal and wandered into the adjacent neighbourhood. Chickens roamed, horses grazed in small pastures, and cacti emerged untamed. Everything seemed to have a little more freedom to be its wild self here.

In many of the yards were abundant citrus trees—sun-kissed lemons and clusters of grapefruits so ripe the branches dipped ever so slightly. I was in awe with citrus season.

Earlier this year I stayed with my husband’s family again, anticipating my walks to the neighbourhood. This season I decided to document these sacred solo mornings. One roll of film to capture the neighbourhood that had become my living sanctuary.

What I would come to learn about citrus season is its ability to weave community together, in small bursts from one neighbour to another—a conversation, an offering followed by a box of oranges on the doorstep an hour later.

I felt this when I paused to photograph an agave stretching freely in the front yard of someone’s home, only to have the homeowner ask what I was photographing and then offer me an armful of oranges from the tree. (Yes, I graciously accepted them and proceeding to put one in each pocket so I could continue my walk).

I felt this when I stood admiring a lemon tree adorned with jewel-like drops from the gentle morning rain, only to hear someone call from across the road to tell me the tree was in his yard and I was welcome to take as many lemons as I liked.

I especially felt this when I wandered down my favourite road, where a wheelbarrow overflowing with navel oranges seemed to magically refill every few days for neighbours to enjoy.

One morning, I wandered down this road and saw, for the first time, the wheelbarrow in motion, guided by an older gentleman whom I will call Mr. L. I watched as he steered toward the backyard, where a lush tree stood painted with flecks of orange. Eventually I walked up to him, introduced myself and told him how much I admired his act of service for the community. I spent some time with Mr. L that morning. He let me capture some photos as he asked me about photography and why I was in Arizona, and we chatted about life in the desert and how different it is from life near the Rocky Mountains.

I left with a finished roll of film, treasured memories, quiet learnings from citrus season, and an orange to enjoy on my walk home.

I’ve moved many times, sometimes between countries, and sometimes between cities and towns. This time, I moved from the city where I lived with my husband for two years to my family’s homestead—16 acres of unconditional love.

As I write this, the rhubarb leaves cradle rain drops from the quenching storm that just rolled through, the lilac blossoms perfume the land at dusk, the greenhouse is filled with floral baskets protected from the imminent arrival of hail storms, the rose awaits her permanent place in the soil, the red-winged blackbirds anticipate this year’s cattails and the horses graze as the frogs begin their evening song.

This season in Alberta, which always seems to arrive overnight after prolonged winter, is ripe with tales yet to be told. The rhubarb and lilacs are among the first storytellers of the season.

I feel like I have known this land my whole life. It carries the thread of childhood home, and yet I have to remind myself it has only woven into my story the last five years. This land, this home, has held me through many iterations of me. It invites all of me with a gentle whisper, “come, rest, and just be.” The invitation is a reminder to bring all of me with me.

Many years ago, a teacher once shared,

“whenever there’s a major transition, whenever you leave something big—a home, a relationship, a job—make sure you bring the good parts of you with you.”

These words have become a practice over the years during big shifts.

In this context, I think our understanding of “good” can be nuanced. Good for one person can mean laughter, joy, and uplifting moments. Good for another person can mean the difficult lessons that lead to the clarity and wisdom they might never have received otherwise. Good can mean all of it and everything in between. We each get to choose what good means.

Through the often all-encompassing nature of major transitions, this practice has been an invitation to pause and reflect—on the parts that changed, that grew, and that hopefully became a little wiser.

The morning before moving day, I sat outside at the little patio set that has since been packed away, with tea and my journal, and reflected on the parts of myself that came alive in this home, the parts that allowed me to become a little more myself, and the parts I wanted to be sure I brought with me.

Here are a few that I wrote down:

• The part of me that learned how to be with stillness and silence in a deeper way. The part of me that wanted to hear my inner voice more clearly.

• The part of me that tended to a home with a depth of care I hadn’t yet experienced.

• The part of me that found peace and creativity through learning new crafts.

Perhaps you are experiencing a transition right now, and perhaps it, too, needs a moment of pause, of reflection, and a reminder to bring you with you.

Until next time,

Jo

P.s There’s no audio recording this week because my mic is in a box I have yet to unpack.

If you like listening instead of reading, and would rather listen to me read this share instead of the AI bot, I will be adding audio to these posts. I’m still working through some mic glitches, but wanted to share it regardless.

In these last seven months, I stepped away from a community that I have been a part of through many iterations of myself for the last 8 years. A month ago, I stepped back into that community, and this past weekend, I sat with the friend I needed the most space from, because he had the ability to see me more than most. It felt like the warmest hug, and a really big mirror.

As we sat on the grass together, he spoke of being witnessed and moments in our lives when being witnessed is the last thing you want. In that conversation I realized that I had stepped away because I did not want this community, a community that has cared for me in ways I will never be able to fully explain, to witness me in this season—to witness the shame, to witness the ache, to witness the pain. There was a tenderness in my heart when I realized that’s why I had stayed away.

In my journey with community, I have learned that community heals. It also has the power to make things very real, which can feel like a sore spot. Sometimes, what’s real for someone and the sore spot it creates needs to be exposed so that it can heal.

So, to the friend who sat on the grass with me, thank you for witnessing me, and allowing me to witness you. I believe it all gets a little brighter because of that.

In many ways, I know this substack is for exactly that—to allow others to witness me in this journey, just a little more, and to allow the sore spots to come to the surface so that those too can heal.

Until next time,

Jo

I’m making some adjustments to the frequency and timing of these posts. Pre-launch, my plan was to share these newsletters bi-weekly on Mondays. Post-launch, something didn’t feel quite right. Insert my first pivot! I’m feeling called to push and stretch myself (in a really good way) to write more. I will be sharing weekly posts from now on on Sundays. I’m not exactly sure why Sunday. I’m just here to listen.

This newsletter is an exploration of what it means to live a life of slowing down—through travel, craft and our connection to land, and the poetry of everyday life. You can expect travel diaries, my learnings and reflections, lots of photography, journal entries on food and art, and conversations with friends. I am in no way an expert on slowing down. I am not writing this to teach anything or share a “tips and tricks” on slowing down. I am writing this because in my reflection, it just seems to be the path I’ve been on.

I called it “Rallentare: the Art of Slowing Down” because art is messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s a practice that asks you to come back to it again, and again, and again. I vow to let this be that—to allow it to emerge from a place of uncertainty, the honesty that I am self-discovering, and the ‘I don’t actually know’ place. Most importantly, to allow it to come from my heart.

For many months, I imagined what my first share would be. Likely a gratitude piece because that’s always a good place to start. How it actually wanted to start was not what I had imagined. In a very challenging season (a story for another time), I was pulled to write. Write about what was going on. Write about how I felt. Just write. A lot of Rallentare seeds were planted in that season.

In that time, I also did a lot of free-writing, a practice that has grounded me when the layers of confusion and uncertainty are closer to the surface. A few weeks into this challenging season, I received a message in a free-write on the nature of storytelling, presence and honouring the unseen rhythm of life. It was potent and stopped me in my tracks. It felt like a guiding light for this journey of Rallentare and whatever continues beyond it. I want to share it as a way to honour the message, and stamp it on the page as a self-reminder.

This is the free-write:

Stop trying to finish a story too early. When you finish a story too early, it causes imbalance. It is impatience. Practice an “I don’t actually know” perspective. “I don’t actually know, until I truly know.” Remember this in this journey as a storyteller. You cannot tell a story too quickly. Why? You will miss things that want to be part of the story. There is a divine rhythm that is not bound to time. If you add the impatience of time to the story, very important elements that are worth knowing will always be missed. Go slow. This is your practice.

And so it is.

Let’s see where this can go.

Jo