Starved for sun, I head to the beach in Hyannis on this warm winter day.  Wanting a new scene to inspire me, I’m here, looking at Lewis Bay for the first time.  The Hyannis Yacht club to my right is serenely vacant, its long dock empty.  The tide is out and the pilings are high, like fat pencils, sporting gulls instead of erasers.  The inner harbor is hidden behind a jetty, but an island ferry heading to port, passes in front of me.  Behind her, houses line the distant shore for several miles, until the land drops off into the ocean. 

 The quiet here is loud, without wind or waves.  My shoulders relax, my breathing is deeper and my worries dissipate.  I feel the rhythm here and I am now part of the scene.  Its peace seeps in like salve on a wound, coating me with healing.  The emptiness inside recedes, as nature’s energy takes its place.  Fear melts away and seems so small compared to the scope of beauty surrounding me.  Being here makes it impossible to stay locked up inside myself.  Without trying, I find myself outside, taking my place with all that is here.  Because this is where the part of me who cries for more, finds all I need.  No longer separate, I now connect.  No longer tense, I release.

In this time, at this place, I have healed a bit, or maybe a lot.  I came here not liking my life these days.  I wanted something to make it better – maybe a man to love, work that excites me and my energy back.  I felt adrift without a grasp.  Reaching for something unknown, I had fallen further away.  But here and now, I find my life line pulling me back to what was here all along – myself, as divine as the scene before me, because I am part of the whole.

Tahanto Road led me here to the Pocasset River on the eastern shore of Buzzards Bay in Pocasset, MA. Houses with docks line its shores and it has the summertime feel of a closely knit neighborhood, active with children swimming, barbeques, boaters coming and going and joyful hustle and bustle. Its boaters pass by striking jetties as they enter the bay. Made by men to keep the channel open, the jetties seem to bid a safe passage and a welcome return.

I’ve been here in summer but it’s winter now and a quiet time for reflection. I look at the jetties and am struck by thoughts of what lies beyond safe shores. I think of new beginnings, of entering uncharted waters. The rocks of each jetty stretch out, reminding me of a parent’s arms. Holding their children safe, they guide, protect and share their wisdom in preparation for life, yet, when the time comes, they must let them go. The parent must face restraint and is left, like the jetties, marking a safe and steady place for their return.

Each of us must travel through our own portal into waters unknown, to find whatever treasures await, if only to discover that taking the journey to wherever it leads, is the treasure itself. It is where our discoveries lead us to ourselves. If we are blessed with a chartered beginning to set us on course, we are free to roam beyond, knowing that the arms that sent us off, will welcome us back.

And when we return we are so much more than who we were. Filled with new experience, we grow in understanding of ourselves and hopefully learn that life is about solo journeys to seek and grow and then reconnect with others to share the new bits of ourselves.

This is the message that I get, looking through the channel into open waters. Even on my lone journey, writing here today, I have enjoyed the beauty of nature and gained a bit of understanding. And now, I too can share a small piece of me.

The big gray and white gambrel, nobly guarding the mouth of the cove where it enters Onset Bay, rises in sun dappled majesty on the grassy knoll. Its quiet splendor is in sharp contrast to the demanding squawks from the small  gull on the pavement next to my car. I wish I had some food to quiet his hunger. The dock  is barren; it’s pilings rising from the water untethered. Mounds of sea grass glimmer golden on the sun drenched sand. The path of sunlight on the barely moving water is almost blinding as it shimmers and ripples.

A lone sail boat is moored in the cove as if guarding its entrance. Down cove, empty moorings are still, the sandy shores are vacant and distant houses sit silently on their waterfront shores. A woman walking the beach passes, crows caw, water shimmers, sea grass glimmers and my world is calm. Time slows as it passes in sync with the current flowing gently. Two crows take flight, playfully joisting over the cove as they go from one shore to the other. A swan rounds the tip of Shell Point and passes by for a leisurely swim toward the Agawam River.

What a treat, this time out in my Saturday. I’m infused with the energy of nature’s finest to spur me on through those waiting supermarket isles, but I’ll now be pushing that shopping cart with a blanket of serenity to insulate me from the bustling chores of weekending. How lucky am I?

Shedding off the confines of cabin fever, I turn right on Academy Road in Bourne and follow it to the south end of the Cape Cod Canal down by Mass Maritime, in search of open space, fresh air and natural beauty.  Winter time now, the Canal is empty of boats, except for the old red Tug that’s tied up at the school’s pier. The skies above the canal are where the action is; an open playground for sea birds in flight. Small and black, flocked together they head east, and then turn left on their U turn back to where they began.  Another flock races past the first and it looks a little competitive.  They remind me of children running on an open field, with no boundaries to stop them, just space that gives them the joy and freedom to be as they are.

 In the fertile waters of the canal in front of me, geese dive head first after a frantic paddle to their next meal.  Almost vertical, one appears to be jet propelled as he races on the surface, and then nose dives to his catch below.  Appearing to be out for a leisurely afternoon fly, a gull swoops and dips over the sun drenched, shimmering waters.

 The Railroad Bridge down the canal is raised and inactive.  The dinner train doesn’t run in the winter and it’s not yet time for the trains hauling trash off Cape to pass over the water.  The American Flag perched dead center on the top span is erect, the flag waving proudly.  It appears too small though, in comparison to the ornate turrets atop each pillar.  Below, the sea birds congregate knowing they have the right of way without interruption from trains not yet here.  The Bourne Bridge looms large in the distance beyond the Railroad Bridge.  Centered perfectly further down the canal, its familiar arch gently shadows the traffic underneath as it opens the way onto the Cape.  A fishing boat suddenly appears beyond the RR Bridge, alone - setting its course toward the sea.  The birds scattered, but go back to their place beneath the bridge now that the boat’s wake has rippled into nothingness. 

 As I look at the scene once more  and watch the graceful seagulls covering vast expanses of sky and those in the waters just sunning, swimming and fishing, I’m left with the feeling of freedom.  The view speaks of openness; time and space without limits.  With a knowing that possibilities are as endless as the skies above and the waters below, it tells of time that has no end and space that has no border. It’s as unlimited as those Sea Birds’ choices; to go as far or stay as close they want. The sky is the limit and the choice is theirs –  just as it is mine.

The calm is what strikes me after sitting here for a minute.  The only disruption is the constant noise from a cricket hiding somewhere to my right and the occasional squawking from a gull on the beach below this grassy knoll.  The water is calm except for the gentle current of the Agawam River as it meets the Bay.   The beach is free of waves as the tide slowly recedes.  Several gulls are combing the sands for a snack, only to cry with disappointment at their fruitless search.  The sky is clear with elongated light gray clouds that lay low above the trees across the cove.  A big black crow caws in the tree next to me and dog barks in answer from the confines of his house.  A gentle breeze stirs the small American flag secured to a boat moored in front of me.  I notice small channels of shallow water in the sand, left there by the shrinking tide.  So much activity, yet total peace pervades.  Familiar sounds lend ambience; sounds I often miss or dismiss in my busyness. A young boy on the beach contributes to the scene; first banging a rock on a concrete drain pipe peaking out from the sand, then in boredom; throwing the rock into the water.  A few brave gulls now stand in the water – so still – like hesitant waders, treading slowly into the cold.

My lunch time is over now but I’ll bring the peace of this time back to work with me for a good measure of serenity to the rest of my day.

Everything is still in front of me, except the top of the windmill in the distance, visible above the tree line over by the canal and Mass Maritime. The empty expanse of sand in front of me is inhabited by a lone, sun bathing gull. Even she doesn’t move. The blues of the water change in the bay. Closest to shore, they’re a sun lit iridescent powder blue, taking form like a large fat V lying on its side. Filling the middle of the V are royals, ceruleans, hints of purples and grays. Only the surface moves slightly, giving the colors more definition. The boathouse on the point across the bay sits empty in winter hibernation. Snow lines the banks along its shore, still white and pure even though it’s a week old. There is no activity to muddy it up. No foot prints to mar its smooth surface. It just lies there, waiting to melt, and then refreeze. All the moorings in the bay look lonely and unattached; each one motionless and white, separate from the others. The Yacht club is closed for the season, hidden from view by stacked layers of shrink wrapped boats in dry dock. The old Victorian homes that line the shore on the far side of the beach add a pastel quirkiness to the calm of the water.

Stillness is all I see as I view this beach in winter. Stillness is all I feel. It is a different kind of calm for me – more pronounced than when I take quiet moments in my world of motion. This is quiet that permeates from the outside in; born from the stillness of the scene. Nothing moves except that windmill in the distance and the solitary gull who takes flight every now and then. My insides feel the change. They have been tranquilized naturally, just by being present here. I too have been slowed, much to my great surprise. Not fond of cold weather, I usually contract and withdraw from the elements. I realize that in doing so, I’ve missed opportunities to be quieted by the winter landscape, from the outside in. But now I know.

Written 9/24/09

Looking forward into a mirror, at a backward reflection outside my window,

of forest green pine branches moving left to right as the wind stirs them against a sunlit clear blue sky.

 This brings me peace as I witness its simple beauty.

 The bend of a quiet road flanked by a stone wall on one side

and rose bushes gone by on the other, sit quietly beneath that tall pine.

 A blue jay’s harsh song begs for its mate

to witness this time, this place in the mirror above my desk.

 My work day keeps me inside where I can only look,

but my view brings me peace and makes me smile

 The gull sitting on the piling not ten feet from my car looks old and wizened as he surveys the pier from his vantage point.  Plump, he must have a good bird’s eye view out for his meals.  His legs are thick and sturdily planted, like he’s rooted into that piece of wood.  He’s so much bigger than the other gulls who are now sunning themselves on other pilings.  Clearly, he is king of the roost, judging by his size, his stance and his presence.  Only the others don’t seem to be paying him any attention.  Or maybe, they’re keeping their distance in quiet reverence.  So content, though is he, or she that she’s now in quiet repose, legs tucked under as she sleepily surveys her surroundings.  Hmmm, curious that when upright and standing firm, the gull was clearly male and now in rest and relaxation, the feminine side is so apparent.  Maybe my interpretation is way off, but it doesn’t matter because for these moments in time, nothing else matters.  I am totally present and engaged, hanging out on the pier with my gull buddy.

The weather this early November Sunday is a gift and I’m soaking it in from this bench where I see the cove empty into the Bay.  The noon sun sparkles a path on the water from way over by the bridge to where I sit.  It speaks of the movement of life, shimmering with silent words of splendor.  Mesmerizing me with movement, its magnificence seems to stretch to infinity.  The air holds a breeze that remembers the gentleness of summer past, while telling of the winter to come.  Sounds of hammering travel from across the cove and walkers behind me make sounds of sand scraping the pavement.  A biker on his Harley is silhouetted on the bridge as he rides by the bay.                                                                                                                                                                                                          

The almost bare tree branches are beautiful in their intricate form, clearly defined by the brilliant blue sky backdrop.  Remaining russet and red leaves, fringe several tree tops high above the row of houses across the water.  A small fishing boat sits emptied, tied to a floating dock that’s littered with its coolers, a lobster trap and other gear.  Several boats still remain in their slips at the marina and a few tied to their moorings dot the cove.  Like the gear on the dock and the boats still in the water, I understand this reluctance to let go of summer.  Not wanting to relinquish its memory, I too stubbornly hold on to any remnants. There will be time enough to stow things away and go inside, but until I absolutely have to, I’m going to totally enjoy all the gifts that come today and relish them with all I’ve got.  I’ll deal with the rest when I have to; another day.

I am surrounded by astounding natural beauty as I sit on my deck.  Tall trees, mostly pine and oak, rise untamed from the conservation land behind my cedar fence.  The leaves barely move now but earlier they spoke with the rustle of the sea wind.  They sounded like the woods of Maine, even though they’re planted in Cape soil and sand. The sky above is so crisp it could be sliced cleanly by a sky writer. Void of clouds, planes or any intrusion, it is uniform in color, almost a luminescent blue.  The birds must be readying for rest.  They’ve taken to the trees where only an energetic few still chirp.  The hummingbird couple retired after a ten minute visit to my red bee balm plants and yellow honeysuckle vine.  The colors of my flowers need no artist.  They are creations of nature.  The breeze picks up for a moment and another hummingbird flits by. 

 In allowing myself to really see what is before me, not only are my eyes open but my mind is too.  So much pours in now.  Gratitude for this feast before me, fills my senses and brings me peace, for it is here that I feel both the stillness and movement of nature and come to understand that this is how nature is.  Just as the hummingbirds come and go, as the leaves rustle then stop, as the birds are silent, then sing, I too am changing.  In quiet, sound is born.  In stillness, action begins.  In my sadness at not being in love, the energy of one to come begins.  In my times of loneliness, a connection stirs.  Since I too am part of nature, my movement is the same.  What is not here now will soon appear, just as what is here now, may depart.  With this understanding comes acceptance of the flow of the natural world we are one with and I find faith; faith that if I’m in tune with the ways of nature and remain aware of its energy and movement, all that is not well will soon be and what has left, will again return.  Maybe different but it will be new, recreated or reformed. But it will appear, if I keep my eyes, my heart, my mind and ears open.  For if I don’t, it may pass me by and I’ll never even know that I had the chance to see, to love, to grab hold off.  I’ve learned in this writing, that each change in nature is a reminder for me to watch, pay attention and keep faith that the winds of change are in constant motion, that it is how the cycles go and I will flow with it as it flows through me.

Across the channel, nestled among the trees, are big old summer houses.  They stretch as far as I can see from my view here at the Quahog Republic. Sandy beaches line the shores on that side and this. The sun is bright, the sky baby blue and a whitish haze hovers above the tree line in the distance.  Sand chairs of many colors have their backs to me on the beach below.  The grownups’ heads are covered with hats and children play in the sand.  Moored boats bob lazily in water so calm.  Time slows down here on Mashnee Island.

I’m on Cape Cod but I could be in the Caribbean.  The breeze blows gently through the open window.  Jimmy Buffett’s music serenades.  A small skiff with a sail of blue glides slowly by as one with a motor speeds to shore.  The people on the beach didn’t come by car.  They arrived by boat with their gear in tow.  Things move very slowly as I see outside.  And here in my chair I catch the vibe.  A glass of wine, a pen in my hand and I relax inside.

A wooden raft 30 feet out brings me back to when I was a kid.  Jumping off, then climbing back up, rocking with the water as I lay down on those hard boards. Somehow, they didn’t seem hard then. The kids out there now are doing the same.  Some things are timeless.  

Free, with time standing still, it surrounds us all here on Mashnee Island.  New kayakers go back and forth.  Community boating is alive and well as small sails fill the channel and add to the color.  Gulls are overhead.  One catches my eye as he glides and swoops. I think he could be Jonathan Livingston Seagull.  Just like velvet, he coasts.  I’m mesmerized as I watch his journey and I can only imagine his view from above.

 There is so much activity in this lazy scene when I take the time to see.  Yet a peace abounds and infiltrates the air, erasing life’s stresses as it takes me away.  A gray haired guy stands below.  Oars in his hand, a life jacket thrown over his shoulder, he waits for someone while he sings and dances in place to ‘Rocking in the Free World’.  Reggae plays now as I feel the breeze and move my shoulders to the rhythm,   I found a gem today, for I will come back to my new island habitat.

There is a sculpture and jewelry gallery on route 6A in Cape Cod, called “The Giving Tree”.  The grounds are peaceful, tree covered and adorned with sculptures of every kind.  It is there to wander about and discover or to just be.  I decided to sit on a bench and write in this oasis of serenity.

Flanked by a playful metal dog on one side and a wise stone woman on the other, the intertwined tree branches before me are like none I’ve seen.  So graceful, they rise from the earth, bend softly to the side and meander along.  Braced by a post, they join, wrapped around each other and loop peacefully, lazing along in simplicity.  Suddenly they change, unexpectedly melding into mad disarray, like arms and legs entangled in passion.  They curve and twist, then split and divide into a jumble of form and beauty.  My eyes turn away, as if I’m intruding, and settle on a piece of slate on the ground below.  Written are the words “Come sit under the Giving Tree with me”.  I smile, knowing that I was lured to her before being invited, as if beckoned by the tree itself.  Intrigued by its shape, I wonder, what does the Giving Tree give?  What messages are hidden amongst her unusual beauty? 

 Up the tree climbed, woven around another, where she was taken to heights and places yet unseen.  She reached higher and higher, climbing the neighboring Cherry Tree in exploration.  As I watch her path and growth, I understand the gift the ‘Giving Tree’ has given to me.  In her expansion, is mine.  In her exploration, is mine.  In her time, is mine.  I, like her, stand the same; searching, sometimes alone or maybe connected, at times lost, other times found, moving forward hurriedly or taking my time, but always growing ever stronger – searching, reaching, seeing; always.

With gratitude for my newly learned lessons, I asked the grounds keeper what kind of tree is she?  He looked at me strangely then followed me there. “Ah, that is a bittersweet vine and it’s choking the Cherry Tree she’s wrapped around.”  Stunned, “you mean it’s that horribly invasive vine”?   It is so destructive in my yard.  And what about my new lesson – is it to be destroyed too; choked like the cherry tree, I wonder?   Then I remember thinking this morning of the times I’d been blind to the beauty in others, focusing instead on what seemed to be missing.  Not proud of myself, I vowed then and there, to open my eyes to look beyond the obvious.  Now I understand the tree’s even bigger gift to me. She is a visual reminder that beauty is always present, although sometimes deceptive or maybe not even apparent…. but it is there, just waiting for someone to notice.

Written 7/14/09 

Comfortable in my chair on Woods Hole Beach, my pen poised to capture the magnificence surrounding me, I watch a bird; large, dark and sleek as he glides just above the water, then lands on the surface and disappears below.  In his wake, is a vast expanse of ocean, waves breaking loudly with scent and color. The sky, a clear cerulean, meets the sea, in stark contrast to water colored blue black with crystalline splashes of white.  Yet twenty feet from shore, the color changes to celery green darkened with the brown of sea weeds that rise to the top of each breaking wave. They sway with the rhythm of the water that teases them in, and then snaps them back, as if dancing a tango.  In the distance beyond, a ferry, brim full of vacationers, swiftly follows the channel toward the Vineyard as it passes a tug with barge in tow, laboring into port.

When I chose my spot to write this morning, I wasn’t quite sure that I’d be inspired by the sleepy looking beach scene before me; a few sun bathers, a swimmer or two, distant boats on the horizon and gulls overhead.  I’m thrilled though, to find a much larger spectacle of motion, color and sound in an ever changing array. As I look up now, a Coast Guard Cutter is quickly heading inland, appearing intent on a mission as it disappears behind the big house high up on a cliff.  I wonder for a brief second where my attention will fall next until I notice an infantry of puffy white clouds lazily marching in formation out to sea.  I am awed with this gallery of images before me, feeling such joy and serenity and deliciously content with my hour of writing ‘words of nature’. My eyes have opened and my heart is full.