There is a belief among some that you should go to nature to
heal yourself. For me, I have always
been both infatuated with, and mesmerized by, the spot where the water meets
the shore. It is this spot that provides a healing that is difficult to
localize elsewhere. Being at the the shore offers me a level of perspective
that diminishes proportionally to the increase in distance from that edge. Growing up on an island, particularly a small
island, the shoreline -- that place where land and sea meet -- is so intimately
wrapped up in my identity, that it appears frequently, like an honorary member
of my family. Although its meanings
are multiple in nature, most of all and lately, the shoreline has been a
crutch. A place where I am gently
reminded of how great and big the world is.
A place where I am nudged to see life as an adventure, one that I am privileged
to take part in.
March 12, 2016.
I woke up early today to get to the shore before the sun
rises. This is a common-enough practice
for me. The familiar gurgling of the coffee
maker (timed and scheduled the night before) wakes me, I rise and fumble
through the dark to find warmer clothes to prepare for the cold air I know
awaits. A quick look outside lets me
know that I have about 30 minutes until the sun will appear on the horizon, an
edge unto itself. Today is special, and although
my typical path takes me in one direction or another along the Charlottetown
Boardwalk, today it feels important to go somewhere different. My choice is the shoreline at the bottom of the
Kinlock Road in Stratford.
oments are precious
and fleeting and feel important to see in their entirety, so I hurry to get out
the door.
The quiet drive occurs without any events of note. I arrive before the sun begins to peek out on
the distance and so the edge is lost in the darkness of the morning. I can hear the water in the distance, not the
steady rippling of the soft waves that is typical in the summer months. This morning there is an erratic manner to
the sound of the water, not unlike my unsteady footsteps in the dark, almost as
though the water’s path is also hindered by the darkness. Slowly I begin to feel the change under my feet
from dirt path to a mixture of snow and ice.
I pause and picture what this spot looks like in the summer, how it
smells and what I would see. The winter,
as it does to most everything, has served to mute the sounds and the smell of
the water and I know that it will mute how this shore looks. It occurs to me that the way the winter mutes
the shore is the way the rest of the
world can mute our feelings.
As the sun begins its ascent on the horizon my walk along the
edge is slowly illuminated. The clearly
defined edge I see in the distance is contrasted sharply with the edge I see at
my feet. The ice and snow create a
barrier between the shore and the water, a precarious bridge of sorts. In a way, it is sad to see the water so kept
at bay. Even in the height of summer, this
is not the beach that is used to entice tourists to our island, it is small and
is rarely conducive to capitalizing on the lazy days of summer. But this spot holds some of my most treasured
memories, emotions are tied to most everything I see.
My being here this morning is purposeful. As the sunlight floods the shore in the way
the water cannot I am reminded of my purpose here: to be healed. I am small on the edge, but more than that, my problems are small on the edge.
The perspective I needed today, on day 30, was given. And although I am confident that the
perspective will vanish as the day goes on, I am leaving the edge feeling
better than when I arrived. I actively
choose not to take a camera, phone or music with me. Technology in a place like this feels like an
intrusion; inappropriate and unwelcomed.
The purpose is private and sharing reminds me of the vulnerability of
this experience.
