As soon as I shot this, I knew it had to be the last word in the labyrinth (at least architecturally speaking, as the last page of the last path of the last chapter) even though it happened a year before I burned the mustard-colored shirt and declared this work (relatively) complete. I wish the buoy of our destination were a lighthouse, as I'd originally thought, so I could quote Virginia Woolf in my title. But alas, it was not to be.

Something happened that day––a profound gentling. I felt that if we made it out to that buoy on the Spanish Banks in Vancouver, then everything would be okay.

And so it was....