Serena Martineau

A F R I C A _ Since childhood, I’ve dreamed of visiting this wild, ancient land—the Motherland. I used to pore over encyclopedias and National Geographic magazines, mesmerized by Africa’s wildlife, landscapes, and cultures, wishing one day I could see them with my own eyes. Big dreams for a little girl growing up in the suburbs. It took nearly four decades, but I’m here—and my heart is overflowing. The timing feels divine. In just over two weeks, I’ve experienced moments more spectacular, humbling, and heart-stirring than I ever could have imagined. I arrived in Uganda just before midnight in mid-April—exhausted from long flights and delays, yet lit up with anticipation. Traveling alone is equal parts exhilarating and intimidating, and I’ll admit, some of the Western world’s ingrained apprehensions crept in that first night. Lying awake, missing my kids and the life I once knew, I caught myself wondering what I was doing with my life… not exactly a new thought. ;) By dawn, still sleepless, I pulled on my trekking gear and met Sammy from @labaafrica for a three-day ethical wildlife expedition I’d booked on a whim. Those days felt like a living dream. I wept as I watched elephants, lions, giraffes, and countless other creatures roam free in their raw, natural home. Just as moving as the wildlife has been the warmth of the Ugandan people—welcoming, open, and endlessly kind. There’s so much more to share—from my first trek to my time with 22STARS, an extraordinary humanitarian group doing incredible work here. But for now, I just want to say this: I am in awe of how vast, contrasting, and wildly beautiful this human experience is. I may not know exactly what I’m “doing” with this life, but in this moment, I feel deeply, completely aligned.

It’s hard to believe that over a year has passed since I left Uganda. Time moves quickly, reminding me that life is precious and every moment is a gift. As I reflect on my journey, I am deeply grateful for the experiences, freedoms, and opportunities I am blessed with, and I am reminded not to take them for granted. Today, as I organized my files, I unpacked memories of countless adventures and experiences. I sorted through so many photos from my life that I have never shared, including an absurd amount of images simply of plants and animals. Although maybe strange, to me, they are some of my favorites; those subjects were and are my muses and teachers. Nature always has a way of teaching invaluable lessons about life, love, harmony, and resilience. I feel there is so much to learn from the natural world, especially now. Mostly, unpacking these memories was a sweet reminder of what is truly important: nudging me to slow down and connect more deeply to the wisdom of something much greater.

“Are you a tree or a bird? A tree has deep roots, it stands tall and provides. A bird flies around, it builds a nest, and it explores. If you’re a tree, the key to your happiness is discovering where you need to be planted to grow the strongest. If you are a bird, the key to your happiness is making sure you’re never caged.” — I dream of being a tree, but I have always been and forever will be a 🕊

* Field Notes from a Month Ruled by Venus — 🪲🍃🪐 —— I don’t do halfway anymore I don’t do moments I don’t do almost I desire total communion with the wild natural world the kind that lingers— salt on skin sap on fingers sweetness I can’t explain and don’t try to a full-bodied YES that doesn’t ask permission — I know I’m back when my hands remember before I do when everything starts glowing like it has something to say seed, shell, wing— small lives, ending and beginning the jungle leaves clues everywhere and I follow uninhibited completely — I talk with the trees like they’ve been waiting they answer in centuries not sentences something ancient moving through everything nothing to solve nothing to hold everything already happening I don’t understand it I feel it and that is enough I am brought down and lit up at the same time — my hands get busy turning fragments into something that holds flower, fiber, light as if I were commissioned by the moment itself as if creation were just listening through me — hours dissolve I stop counting I start watching the way a body meets a wave and disappears into it the way balance becomes instinct and instinct becomes art I expand not from doing but from witnessing like I’ve been taken without moving — laughter stretches until it almost becomes truth people forget themselves and soften all of us— no difference just movement just joy just being carried — the ocean keeps time the moon adjusts the rhythm I don’t argue I follow — here, they have a word— ‘a cachete’ full-cheeked, fed to the brim— it’s life filling you past enough until it shows until it’s felt that kind of fullness that needs no explaining— it lives on the face full cheeks and a little cheeky — I am filled and still open undone and more myself held and let loose — this is the life not observed from a distance but felt all the way through

🥥🦋🍃🌼🪲 find me here— where everything is already holy in the spill of light through iridescent edges in the orbs that carry whole worlds in sweetness find me here— find me wild find me free - S

Field notes from the jungle 🌕🍃🦋 ——— Only—Always in times when the world forgets itself there is a return not made not found inherent in light arriving in roots moving in breath continuing the same order that turns galaxies and opens the seed nothing in nature moves against it and what does cannot hold what is not moved in love does not endure what is not held in truth falls away Only—Always known like honey’s sweetness on the tongue in leaf in lung in light even what breaks is gathered reformed returned so we soften we remember we honor the dark and the light and choose again what sustains Only—Always

The Peace of Wild Things 🌺

TEN DAYS IN JAPAN 🇯🇵 🏯🍜 [post 3/3] We landed in Tokyo and stepped straight into the spin—shrines, temples, markets, street food, art, pet cafés, fashion, and the steady rhythm of an endless city. We had unlocked a new dream, and I couldn’t have been happier to be sharing it with two of my boys. By the end of day three, however, Japan became a literal fever dream—body aches, coughing, and a stubborn fever—eventually finding out from a local doctor that I had tested positive for Influenza B. The rest of the days were filled with delirium: a blur of trains, planes, and automobiles, somehow sleeping on or through most of them while my boys took charge. From Tokyo to fresh snow in forested Nikko, to the cool, quiet energy of Kanazawa and back again—me drifting in and out, the boys fully in it. There’s something very wabi-sabi about getting sick in a country built on precision. The beauty of imperfection. Plans dissolving. Letting go. While I rested, my boys navigated train stations, found their favorite new can’t-live-without foods, picturesque backstreets, and thrift shops. They brought me stories and footage like postcards from their own adventure—samurai and geisha villages, vinyl record lounges, TeamLab excursions, candy-coated everything, treasures with the kind of packaging you almost don’t want to open. One night, they were passengers in their dream JDM cars, racing across Rainbow Bridge and through Tokyo’s neon playground for late-night car meetups. Even sick, I caught pieces of each day—the elegance, the order, the seamless way ancient tradition and modern life coexist without competing. Delirious? A little. A dream? Absolutely. And maybe the best part was watching my boys handle an unfamiliar country—open, mindful, confident, kind, and absolutely capable. Somehow, it was all perfect.

TEN DAYS IN JAPAN 🇯🇵 🏯🍜 [post 2/3] We landed in Tokyo and stepped straight into the spin—shrines, temples, markets, street food, art, pet cafés, fashion, and the steady rhythm of an endless city. We had unlocked a new dream, and I couldn’t have been happier to be sharing it with two of my boys. By the end of day three, however, Japan became a literal fever dream—body aches, coughing, and a stubborn fever—eventually finding out from a local doctor that I had tested positive for Influenza B. The rest of the days were filled with delirium: a blur of trains, planes, and automobiles, somehow sleeping on or through most of them while my boys took charge. From Tokyo to fresh snow in forested Nikko, to the cool, quiet energy of Kanazawa and back again—me drifting in and out, the boys fully in it. There’s something very wabi-sabi about getting sick in a country built on precision. The beauty of imperfection. Plans dissolving. Letting go. While I rested, my boys navigated train stations, found their favorite new can’t-live-without foods, picturesque backstreets, and thrift shops. They brought me stories and footage like postcards from their own adventure—samurai and geisha villages, vinyl record lounges, TeamLab excursions, candy-coated everything, treasures with the kind of packaging you almost don’t want to open. One night, they were passengers in their dream JDM cars, racing across Rainbow Bridge and through Tokyo’s neon playground for late-night car meetups. Even sick, I caught pieces of each day—the elegance, the order, the seamless way ancient tradition and modern life coexist without competing. Delirious? A little. A dream? Absolutely. And maybe the best part was watching my boys handle an unfamiliar country—open, mindful, confident, kind, and absolutely capable. Somehow, it was all perfect.

TEN DAYS IN JAPAN 🇯🇵 🏯🍜 [post 1/3] We landed in Tokyo and stepped straight into the spin—shrines, temples, markets, street food, art, pet cafés, fashion, and the steady rhythm of an endless city. We had unlocked a new dream, and I couldn’t have been happier to be sharing it with two of my boys. By the end of day three, however, Japan became a literal fever dream—body aches, coughing, and a stubborn fever—eventually finding out from a local doctor that I had tested positive for Influenza B. The rest of the days were filled with delirium: a blur of trains, planes, and automobiles, somehow sleeping on or through most of them while my boys took charge. From Tokyo to fresh snow in forested Nikko, to the cool, quiet energy of Kanazawa and back again—me drifting in and out, the boys fully in it. There’s something very wabi-sabi about getting sick in a country built on precision. The beauty of imperfection. Plans dissolving. Letting go. While I rested, my boys navigated train stations, found their favorite new can’t-live-without foods, picturesque backstreets, and thrift shops. They brought me stories and footage like postcards from their own adventure—samurai and geisha villages, vinyl record lounges, TeamLab excursions, candy-coated everything, treasures with the kind of packaging you almost don’t want to open. One night, they were passengers in their dream JDM cars, racing across Rainbow Bridge and through Tokyo’s neon playground for late-night car meetups. Even sick, I caught pieces of each day—the elegance, the order, the seamless way ancient tradition and modern life coexist without competing. Delirious? A little. A dream? Absolutely. And maybe the best part was watching my boys handle an unfamiliar country—open, mindful, confident, kind, and absolutely capable. Somehow, it was all perfect.

People love to say “This is the most prosperous time in history.” Mathematically, they’re right. But as a metric for the human soul, it’s incomplete. Prosperity means nothing if it’s built on the backs of the suffering. Progress doesn’t permit us to look away; it gives us a greater responsibility to see. We can acknowledge how far we’ve come and still be outraged by how far we have to go. I refuse to use ‘global statistics’ as an excuse to abandon empathy, truth, and love. I will not let a graph of ‘progress’ become a blindfold for my heart.

In the face of our current reality, there are moments when I feel afraid, and moments when I feel insignificantly small— how can one person possibly make a difference in the face of so much? And still, I believe we cannot abandon our responsibility to protect people from harm, because humanity is not conditional. This isn’t only about one country; it’s about the shared world we belong to, one family. Even when my voice trembles, I choose to speak, to show up with care and grace where I can, and to keep my heart open. I’m learning that presence matters and that together, we make more of a difference than we realize.