A few Saturday mornings ago, I was in my regular spot, writing at my desk. I had every intention of remaining there. I had a prompt to respond to and a list of other creative and mundane “to do’s” to accomplish. I was content, but also determined to be on task and focused.
Then I glanced outside and saw this sky:
It takes a much stronger woman than I am to resist that lure!
Mere minutes later, I was hastily dressed and in my car driving down to the waterfront. I arrived there to soft light and a flock of seagulls.
I stood at the shoreline and watched the gulls swoop and dive. Their white and grey bodies shone against the changing light and mist and fog. It was mesmerizing.
I watched them while my fingers grew cold, then colder and then began to ache. They flew in large circles or ovals over the water, their dark shadows mirroring them in the river, like phantom dance partners.
Often gulls can be quite loud. On this morning they were mostly silent, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Occasionally, one of them called — a sudden thrust of sound partially muted by the fog and mist. Echoing off and away across the river.
After a while, I wandered further along the shore. Raindrops from the previous day’s storm lined branches. Many were oddly shaped and half-frozen, etched with crystal. Caught in a liminal zone between water and ice. A spider web strand had transformed into a showcase for glowing orbs, neatly arranged along its length. Each one a complete, dazzling marvel.
Glancing upriver, I saw more gulls and a horizon layered with fog-softened grades of water, tree and sky.
Somehow, I’ve fallen out of the habit of visiting the local waterfront. I’ve been enjoying lazy mornings at home instead, or the occasional trek down to the marsh. Watching the gulls’ aerial ballet on this morning, seeing the light shift, and noticing the beauty that surrounded me, I felt a shift, a gentle click and an opening. It was as if a key had turned in some internal lock.
I was where I was supposed to be.
On Saturday morning, I woke early. Summer vacation had begun! It was about 4:30, my regular school-day rising time, and coming downstairs, I glanced outside. The sky glowed with streaks of pink and red.
This landscape tells a story of powerful forces at work, but speaks a language that is foreign to me. Almost like hieroglyphics. Each shape and bubble, each boulder and slab tells of force and movement, of time and wind and weather. I need my own Rosetta Stone to make sense of this world– Something that would explain the layers, the shapes, the cataclysm that shifted horizontal shelves of rock until they were rotated and running in ridges perpendicular to their original orientation. Even without fully understanding, I’m captivated by the story.
Nix the comfort zone 