I was conflicted when I left Toronto. My marriage was strained, my career at a crossroads, my health a disaster and my confidence, well that deserted me completely. I was not running from my problems but distancing myself from one set of worries to deal with another when I came back that summer. Years later, as the nameless truths of those times became known, I would realize that the universe had led me to where I was meant to be.

My friend lived in a charming area in the center of the city where veteran soldiers returning from WWII set up their first homes. The homes were tiny, but the lots were sizeable – people had big gardens and more children back then. We were sitting in the backyard when I asked where the beautiful fragrance of lilacs was coming from, and he pointed out the little yellow house across the back lane.

“Do you want to see the place? The owners have just put it on the market.”

I can never pass up a walk amongst flowers, so we went for a look. A narrow sidewalk led to a concrete patio that hugged one side of the dwelling before continuing toward the front. The patio was shaded by an ash tree with a canopy that extended like the outstretched arms of a grandmother, beckoning me to stay. The sweet green peace reminded me of the carefree summer holidays I had idled away at our cottage as a child.

The building itself was just over 600 square feet of living space, one bathroom, no closets, an unfinished basement and in need of new “everything”. The branding of the furnace, water heater and appliances spoke to the prairie heritage of ordering from the Sears catalogue. The beige carpeting, fabric blinds and vinyl siding showed some rudimentary attempts at cosmetic remodelling. In the front yard, a soaring elm, taller than all the others between Balmoral and Osborne streets, stood sentry over the abode.

I was not looking for a house and had no premonition that in three months’ time, my circumstances would change dramatically, yet I was calmly calling the number on the For Sale sign and within two days, I had made an offer and acquired a mortgage. I was well aware the house needed a great deal of rehabilitation, but it was habitable.

I have now lived at the Cottage in the City for fifteen years. The house – or “Pandora’s Box,” as my carpenter husband refers to it when exasperated – is a renovation project with no end. It has undergone asbestos abatement, structural repairs to the roof, acquired a new water heater, furnace and air conditioning, and there is a considerable amount of upgraded electrical; however, the kitchen, which was ripped out seven years ago, has yet to be replaced, and the list is endless.

Why did I buy it? Well, I did not buy the house. I bought the ash tree. The house and garage are just located on the same lot. The ash tree is my “tree of heaven”, and I bought the property so I could protect my tree from being cut down.

In my early teens, I read a novel by Betty Smith, set in the 1920s, titled “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn”. The tree referred to is a Chinese sumac which grows persistently and flourishes in less than optimal conditions in the courtyard of a tenement in Brooklyn. It is a metaphor for the protagonist’s desire to better herself, despite the circumstances of her life.

I live the metaphor. I stepped under an ash tree between Balmoral and Osborne and found peace. I could feel the tree’s purpose, path, and acceptance and somehow began to see my own. A tree does not need to better itself; it just has to be. I continue to sit under my ash tree and find peace when I remember to just be.