Tuesday, March 17, 2009

it is a good day

This is one of those rare moments when I take a deep breath and think; "at this time and in this place, I am happy to be me".

The tide is just beginning to turn, the waves in the harbor rolling gently, their cadence soft. Damp, dark sand, the crystal blue sky, and brilliant early morning sunlight work their elemental magick...soothing, easing. My heartbeat slows, my breath deepens, and my soul opens to the peace and beauty around me.

Across the bay, nestled in green rolling hills framed by blue-lavender mountains, the village basks...beginning to stir and come fully awake. Slanting sunlight glows on south-eastern walls, tussocks of fragrant plants, deeply etched with long morning shadows snuggle in the dunes, and the edgewater sand is pristine, untouched. Engines of fishing boats cough to life and then idle, a dog barks, and I hear the slow slap-push of someone gliding by in a canoe. The air is crisp and smells like salt, seasoned around the edges with fish, dampness, and the organic scent of living things.

The sea crashes against the breakwater with a thunder that I feel in my chest. Climbing over enormous rocks, small boulders, and gaping spaces toward the sound, I am struck by the utilitarian solidity of the granite, then sweetly surprised by an unexpected frosting of delicate, sugar-pink quartz. Small pools of seawater in shallow divots in the stones teem with life, and a tiny sun floats on the surface of each one, shivering when spray blows over the top and falls like minuscule rain.

At the top of the breakwater, the granite falls away, salty wind whips my hair, and the vast expanse of the ocean takes my breath away. Cerulean, rolling, heaving like living blue glass, it greys to slate, then whitens to foam as it thunders against the stone, sending sea-flavored spray far above my head. Hollows in the breakwater gurgle and suck as the sea withdraws it's probing tendrils, and prepares for another assault. When it rushes back, the power is awesome and wonderful and I feel it deep inside my being.

Grey-silver fog slips in, silent, quick. Muting the light and softening the sharp edges of the new day, it blankets first the breakwater, then the bay, then the village. The sound of the waves, the sound of the gulls, the sound of skittering sealife at the water's edge become muffled, subdued. Even the great voice of the fog horn whispers...just a little.

1 comment:

  1. Oh you have such a wonderful way with words. I've always felt a wee bit of envy towards writers, they turn words into poems so easily ( or at least it seems that way to me ).
    And your photos are gorgeous ! It is so easy to hear the sounds of gulls and water rushing in. We live on Vancouver Island, so the ocean isn't very far, and our home is just up the road from the inlet by Butchart Gardens.
    It is such a powerful force, the ocean, it's energy soothes and strengthens at the same time.