(Post #50) A Sanctuary of Peace and Wisdom in the Heart of Richmond BC

After the not-so-romantic escape from Asia (if you missed that plot twist, scroll back a post or two), I was thrilled to slide back into the familiar rhythm of house/pet sitting. The plan? Mid-February to March 8 in Richmond, BC—home to two purring cats, a quiet townhouse, and, unknowingly, a temple that would gently slap me awake in the best possible way.

This house sit was a win from the start. Not only was it near the Vancouver airport (handy for retrieving my laptop and personal belongings from a kind couple I met in Malaysia—long story), but it was also close to the ferry for future island escapes. Bonus points: cats have no 7 a.m. leash-tugging or mud-caked paws—just calm companions and flexible schedules.

With my feline colleagues doing their thing, I explored Richmond, which was new to me, so I did what any self-respecting nomad would do: I drove aimlessly, followed scent trails to great cafes, and got lost on purpose. One recommended gem? Steveston Village—Richmond’s waterfront sweetheart. I walked the trails, dined solo in cozy restaurants, and whispered silent thank-yous to the universe. It was bliss.

And then… the detour.

One morning, en route to Steveston, I took a different road and found myself face-to-face with the gates of the International Buddhist Temple that didn’t just welcome me but embraced me. From the moment I drove off the busy street and into this sacred beautiful space, I felt something shift. The air was different, lighter. It wasn’t just a place to admire intricate statues and ancient traditions; it was a place to simply be in the moment. 

Now, I’ve been to temples before—usually in tourist mode, snapping pictures and whispering “ooh” at the architecture. But this was different. I parked, walked in, and instantly felt like I’d stumbled into something I didn’t know I needed. No photos. No distractions. Just breath, presence, and people who smiled at me like they’d been expecting me all along.

I returned. More than once. On Sundays, the temple holds a full-day ceremony: sutras, chanting, and teachings by Venerable Guan Cheng, the Abbot and lifelong student of Buddhism. I showed up—curious—and stayed for the entire day. The chanting? It vibrated through me. The words? They sank in, gently poking at questions I hadn’t thought to ask. I browsed their library and left with free books, a CD, and the unexpected desire to be still for once.

It wasn't a religion. It was a reminder.

A reminder that life doesn’t need to be rushed or constantly recalibrated. A reminder to pause, to sit with the unknown, and to trust the path—even when it veers wildly from the itinerary.

Between feeding cats, sipping tea, and dodging raindrops, I kept returning to the temple. And something shifted. Unlike my temple visits in Asia, where I played the wide-eyed visitor, this time I wasn’t just looking—I was listening.

Buddhism, I realized, isn’t about incense and rituals. It’s about living with awareness. With kindness. With balance. And in this unexpected little corner of Richmond, I started doing just that.

So yes, Richmond was meant for more than quiet pet-sitting. It reminded me why I live this nomadic life. It's not always pretty, and it sure isn’t predictable, but it’s filled with moments that open me up in ways I never see coming.

I left Richmond with more than paw prints and clean litter boxes. I left with tools for the soul.

Next up: a quick two-week stop back in Esquimalt to stretch my legs and my dog-walking skills—then it's off for a six-week return to Cadboro Bay (April through mid-May). You might remember that gem from November—yes, that jaw-dropping modern home perched above the ocean, with views of Mt. Baker and the Olympic Mountains that could humble even the most seasoned nomad.

What kind of trouble can I get into this time? Who knows—but let’s just say I’m not showing up as the same person who left. Richmond gave me more than just another house sit—it handed me a new lens. A softer, more mindful way of seeing my life.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point of this whole crazy ride.