Pelicans
There is a story behind my love for pelicans.
I’ve read they are among one of the most recognized nurturers in nature. Even ancient stories recount them making great sacrifices for their young. To see them fly in groups, skimming the waves is quite mesmerizing. Their council speaks to accepting help, giving help and to letting go in order to make way for better things.
The day I said good bye to my dog Crosby I had gotten him downstairs to the lower deck. He could barely walk and we were waiting for the vet (who was kind enough to make a house call). He slept with his head in my lap and I sat with him for several hours brushing him and talking to him.
A single pelican kept flying by.
I knew I was saying goodbye to him that day. I think he knew too. So I told Crosby the pelican would be our sign. I said every time I saw one I would know he was saying hi to me.
Sometimes it makes me cry to see them but more and more I smile and am thankful for that moment to say hello to my best buddy.
One year.
A year ago today… looking quite like a clown car circus show… three confused and car sick dogs, one human on the verge of a nervous break down, and one very pissed off cat stumbled out of a Subaru Forester and into a new life.
Here are some things the year has shown me:
I love that the ocean shifts its sand daily. Like a clever magician hiding and revealing different gifts and ghosts with each tide.
I love that I thought by moving here the lines in the corners of my eyes would soften but they have actually gotten deeper because of the salty winds and sun.
I love that I have solitude but never feel alone. Strangers here are fast friends and will always stop and have a hearty conversation with you.
I love when the air carries the scent of the sea and mixes with the earthy marsh grass, vacationer laughter, Coppertone and campfire smoke.
I love that my 94 year old neighbor is teaching me how to identify all the birds that visit the outer banks.
I love that my lips continually taste of sea water.
I love that there are so many stars in the sky my eyes have trouble focusing.
I love that just about everyone local is from somewhere else and there is always a story on how they arrived by the sea.
I love that the blend of warm sunshine and cold north winds are so refreshing.
Here are some truths:
Life still happens, regardless of the landscape. Your shadows follow you wherever you call home. There is always a sharp object that will temper your joy. Your heart will be broken and broken again. But you will be ok. This is the dance. It’s a beautiful messy thing, this business of being alive.
On seeing ghosts
You can’t see him there but I can. Look close at the glass door.
Not long ago there were four balls of fur lazily zig-zagging across that floor. My sweet boy Crosby left this realm in June but thankfully he still lingers everywhere. I see his reflection in that glass. His memories of favorite things. Where his nose used to press, big eyes starring “let me outside. no let me back inside”. Where his face used to push against. Drool and left over food bits. Watching the world.
His bits of soul are everywhere. Some days with engulfing intensity.
I read or heard a quote the other day that went something like, “The courage to bear witness to death is the job. The courage to be there.”
Sunday Sunrise
We are all surrounded by the branding of “pushing ourselves”. Taught that we must constantly step out of our comfort zone to grow.
For me, life seems to naturally do a good job of taking us dangerously close to our edges. So maybe we looking at it all wrong.
What if it’s not about forcing ourselves outside of what brings us comfort but rather we need to unlearn and find our way back in?
I remember the day I met Crosby. He had 10 brothers and sisters and I had no idea how to pick which tiny yipping ball of golden fluff I would take home with me. He made the choice easy. I sat on the ground and he ran right to me, climbed in my lap and refused to move. I couldn’t even look at the other pups because he just made himself at home.
I had to wait another 2 weeks before I could bring him home and I remember waking up at 1 am, wondering what it would be like to have him there. Thinking how I’d have to start to get up out of bed and take him outside to potty, middle of the night, rain, wind, cold…
In 12 years, that never became a chore. I would have slept through so much beauty. It became our time to marvel at the night.
I miss hearing your big paws click clack down the hall to the side of the bed to tell me it is time.
Because of you, I saw the stars and satellites fly by in the sky, the rose bush lit by moonlight, and hundreds of fireflies. I smelled winter arrive. Felt the first flakes of a midnight snow. Heard the first spring peepers sing with the coyotes. I knew when the owl woke up (an hour before dawn). I saw countless sunrises and all the phases of the moon.
There is no cold nose nudging me now, so perhaps it's just out of habit but I still wake up. I still get out of bed and walk outside. I can find tiny glimpses of comfort there because I can still see you all around in that dark night light.
Sunday Sunrise
Sunday Sunrise.
3.27.22
When you come around the corner and spot a local photographer at work in his secret spot… you know you are getting the hang at this solo exploring thing…
Friday marked 6 months here. It feels like I just arrived and also like I have always been here. Maybe this is what belonging feels like? Or maybe it shifted space to just be. Either way, this unintended timing of the move during the off-season has let me settle and explore softly. Most days I feel like the beaches are there just for me. Summer and the return of visitors will be interesting.
When the clouds kiss the sea
I’m writing this to remind you, a note to self, for when the horizon disappears…
A year ago. The very first day of the year. Waking up heavy from too much wine mixed with tears and exhaustion. Just having drove 9 hours alone, in a rental car packed full of the important things. The things you didn’t want to chance being crammed in a moving truck, scared but hopeful for something new. But instead, you were slumped forward on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the floor watching it blend into the wall.
The day before, my house of 10 years officially had new owners. There was an unexpected deep grief already being held in that release. Now the place I was set to buy… the contract fell apart, hours before closing. I had failed in my attempt to do that something big. The doubters were right. This bold new adventure was too much for me and I couldn’t do it.
Back in the car still packed with all those important things. And now, with 3 dogs, a cat and 48 years of life shoved in boxes, I had just days to find a new place to call home. The reason for selling my house was swallowed up in the chaos. The horizon along with it.
There is something that happens when the horizon disappears. That line at which the tangible surface of earth meets air. Like a ship’s navigation, it balances our way North. When invisible, everything floods, we are off balance and lost.
A sadness in its fogged soaked cloak but a raw beauty actually hovers in that veil.
Like a thin layer of soft ash, held in your palm that you smeared across the sky. The saturation disappears, the color all absorbed into the clouds. But here, here you can see all the contrasts better. All the finite strokes start to show if you look.
In all the pushing through. The cycles and the layers. The tears and the wine… Some things that are lost will never be found again. At least not in their same form.
You actually didn’t fail.
All those pieces that fell apart, they are still out there, somewhere, floating in that space where the clouds kiss the sea. Look for them.
learning to see the wind
The wind blows a lot here on Hatteras Island. And it’s heavy. Different. Filled with salty particles and smells of the sea.
You don’t notice as much when it’s warm. The welcome cooling to the sandy sweat. But when it’s cold… it moves through you, not around.
Invisible (but not really). Contrasting. Infinite. Defining.
It cycles from nothingness to a roar. Sitting silent in the fog and swirling high in the clouds. It whispers through the pines and click-clacks on the palms.
It’s a part of the beauty in everything you do here. I’m learning to see it.
study
A little WIP… I love watching the surfers study the waves. They rarely get out and just turn their backs to the ocean. This is home to them. They stand at the edge for awhile. Seemingly traveling to another place with the wind and water. Photographic replayings and unlearnings, tucked away for later maybe… (And occasionally they run back in for one more.)
salty
There is a constant coating of damp crystallized salt on everything here. The winds carries it like pollen. Softening the views. Late at night and early in the morning, before the movement of life begins, there is a sound way off, and you realize it is the sea. I don’t live close enough to hear the individual waves, just the succinct power of the whole that appears as a soft roar.