I’m thinking of eggplant parmesan for dinner. Crickets, cicadas...sounds of deep summer. A dove song…
The holidays are over. I left family, friends, my boyfriend and headed into the forest on the edge of the ocean alone. For a week, I wrestle my mind of itâ€™s amazing games, tricks and conversations on the way to quiet. Quiet that comes from nature in winter. There are degrees of solitude and this place, where I do not know a soul, is secure in that solitude. Itâ€™s different than any other time of year. January, itâ€™s uninterrupted magnificence demands I pay attention winthin and quiet everything else.
A walk on the beach in winter is startling in itâ€™s power to wake my senses. At first, somewhat of an assault, but as I walk, climb and move my extremities come alive and warm.
Thereâ€™s nothing so wonderful upon return as a cup of tea and a fire in the wood stove!
I write, letting the babble in my brain escape to paper. With each line, my mind begins to free itself from the chatter. The monkey gets quiet.
How sweetly some profound expression will whisper itself into my writing.
I am in Canada. The forest is magnificent, the trees massive in their reach to the sky, covered with a carpet of moss. The beach is littered with trunks and branches from another time. Driftwood.
The sun pulls itself out of the ocean quite late here.
This dance begins about 7 each morning with the smallest sliver of light on the horizon. Since I first saw this, I am reluctant to miss a performance.
Do not be late, sit quietly and listen to the lagoon as it dances with the sunrise.
I seat myself in a chair nailed to the dock and wait.
First, there is just a hint of light separating the dark sky from the dark ocean, then the sky begins to blush in itâ€™s arousal as the sun tickles the surface of the horizon. It begins to burst into fire the closer the sun gets until, in an explosion of color, it pushes through the water!
All the while, here in the lagoon, itâ€™s still sleepy dawn. The birds begin a quiet song, just a note or 2, hopping from branch to branch. There is a duck softly coaxing the others awake. Then the grey heron, so moved by this spectacle, croaks and flaps out of the grass. A little thanks from every throat.
Intently, from my seat on the dock, I watch this morning drama as it plays out and brings the day to life.
What is the point, the purpose?
There is none reallyâ€¦not really.
I think it is simply to be gorgeous. We are simply one of these beautiful things that was made to do what we do perfectly. The desire to make something beautiful is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
â€œI go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
What shall I do? And the sea says
in itâ€™s lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.â€