March 2026 SOLC–Day 8
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After waking early Saturday morning, I sit at my desk, looking forward to a morning without time constraints. On weekdays during the challenge, I have less time to write morning notes, as my writing needs to be more focused in order to get a post ready to go. As I start writing, I realize how much I’ve been missing free writing in my notebook over the past week. The ink spills from my pen out onto the page like a thread unreeling from a tightly-wound spool. I can feel myself unspooling, too. I write and write. 

After a while, I pick up my phone and check the day’s forecast. I see the haze symbol and feel a sudden tug to visit the marsh. I love it when it’s foggy! I check the time. 5:05 am. I glance at my phone again. Sunrise is at 6:07. I can make it there if I leave soon. Closing my notebook decisively, I rise and get moving. Within ten minutes, I’m dressed and in my car heading south.

As I get closer, the rich smell of the marsh seeps into the car. I breathe deeply, enjoying the elemental, pungent scent. My shoulders lower. My jaw softens. Coming here was a good choice.

I pull into the empty parking lot, park my car, and grab my camera. Walking over to the path, I gaze out over the marsh. I see a small movement and turn to look. My arrival has disturbed two ducks. They paddle further away, slip streams rippling out behind them. I watch them for a bit then turn my attention to a tall tree across the channel. Often there is an eagle there, or later in the year, an osprey. I see a very faint outline. Is that an eagle?  I zoom in with my camera, and only then can I confirm that it is. Even though I can barely see it, I like knowing it’s there, across the snowy expanse, where marsh grasses also lie hidden, dormant beneath thick layers of snow and tumbled chunks of ice. On the other side of the water. A silent companion in the mist. 

With every step further onto the trail, with every sweep of my eyes over the hazy horizon, it’s as if I’m unspooling even further. Loosening. Every so often I hear a crow call. Or a seagull. I see Canada geese and watch them fly low across the snowy expanse. See their silhouettes hazy in the mist across the water. Admire a few ducks as they slip in and out of view.

Far off in the distance I hear the soothing rush of the surf. The ocean is out of view, a few miles away, but it thrums in the background today. Like a pulse.

I imagine that many people would find the scenery dull or stark. Even harsh or severe. But it speaks to me at a fundamental level. The muted winter palate is a balm. The mist is like swaddling, wrapping and comforting me. With every exhale, I feel lighter.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed this.

All the splintered, jagged edges of the week soften and smudge.

This. I think. Just this.