"When I am up here, I feel like I am breathing whole, and the landscape is embracing me."(Penny White, First Nation, from the book "We Are Born With The Songs Inside Us.")
"And my heart soars." (Chief George)
A young mother stood on the boardwalk where I walk most mornings, cradling her toddler in a blanket in the chill of early morning a few weeks ago, just outside of the campground where they were staying. All of the campsites were filled with tents, campers, RV's of all sizes; blankets, folding chairs, trikes, bikes and surfboards were spread everywhere. Her face registered excitement and anticipation at the week before them, and she was filled with plans for activities. "No, no!" she laughed, when I asked if she'd like me to take a photo of she and her baby with her camera. "I don't have my makeup on, and I'm not dressed for a scrapbook photo." She didn't realize, couldn't see, how she was glowing with joy.
A week later, she sat on some driftwood alone, her eyes gazing out over the water toward the mountains, content now to just be in the quiet of the dawn. I wondered if years later she might regret not having the joy of that first morning in a photo to share with her child, with stories of his first visit to the beach, or he to look at in her later years. "And then, who knows?" Marguerite Yourcenar writes: "Perhaps we will be taken in hand by certain memories as if by angels."
I watched a similar scenario all summer long: folks arriving with the energy of their plans, taking boisterous morning walks and bike rides, then quiet at the end, sitting with a cup of coffee on the beach, allowing the surf, the sea, the mountains, the magic of the area to work its wonders. They had gone from frenetic planning to a calm surrender. This morning when I passed by, the campground was mostly empty, almost desolate, a few larger RV's glistening in a drizzly grey chill. When the storm clouds lifted, there was a dusting of snow on Mount Arrowsmith above us, and Michael said: "It's time to go home."
But I feel like I'm home when I'm here, "breathing whole," in this thin place where the boundary between Earth and Heaven seems so close. The air itself is vibrant with the energy that sings with those songs born within us. The trees become the angels of the earth, some of them with scorched trunks that have survived fires hundreds of years ago, embracing,shading and guarding the paths - always rejoicing with their alleluia branches raised heavenward. The waves become the whispers of the All that is beyond hearing, beckoning as I walk beside them, teasing me into and out of reflection as I sit on the driftwood of the foreshore, and calling me to play in their grace.
Every place is filled with miracles and the sacrament of the moment, of course, if we are paying attention. There are some, however, and I hope you've experienced this at least once, that seem to reveal treasures of the heart, in the way that some of our life's moments do: capturing the gaze of an infant, laughing unexpectedly with a loved one, holding the hand of someone who is taking their last breath, being present to a synchronicity or a moment of miracle that is undeniable, and inexplicable.
The island is a treasure trove of such experiences, effortlessly offering miracles. We returned from dinner with some lovely friends on Saturday, and paused at a stop sign, all of us watching two statuesque full-pointed bucks that stood no more than 20 feet away, watching us. I walked to the water late one evening, and as if a hand had touched my shoulder, turned to look back towards the East in time to catch a full-harvest-moon rising over the mountains into a bank of clouds. Five minutes sooner or later, and it would've been out of sight. There have been so many rainbows; so many cascading waterfalls; so many drama-filled skies of roiling clouds, lightening with no thunder, and sun dogs at sunrise and sunset; so many new trails and adventures and friends to love. Over and over we were reminded by the beauty of the area just how fragile and vulnerable our little planet is, how perfectly and delicately balanced, and how very precious.
Our timing has also been unusual this summer, with our month-long break back in Louisiana in July, and our extended stay now until October 1. Michael's healing has progressed. He finally played his first round of golf a few weeks ago, and will do a full day of it tomorrow. Our visit to the sunshine coast was rich and full, with a quiet hike to the incredible rapids of Skookumchuck reverse tides, a too-fast (surprise!) drive on the curvy highway down to Gibson, and our boat tour trip to Princess Louisa Inlet and Chatterbox Falls which turned out to be a private charter, since no one else showed up. We made an inukshuk at the base of the falls, and I remembered one of the traditional definitions of inukshuk: "you are on the right path." In my mind, it translated to a blessing and a call to return.
Rumi says that when his soul soared, it was "free of the tyranny of 'why?' and 'how?'...the thousand veils lifted and I could behold the hidden secret (of God)." I think secrets are scattered about in these sacred places where, if the veils aren't transparent or haven't lifted completely, we are at least allowed a peek. And our hearts soar.
YAY GOD
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