reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: fire island


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the cattails. [kerri’s blog on not-so-flawed wednesday]

cattails feel like home to me.

i grew up on long island – which is, quite obviously by definition, surrounded by water. i spent the vast majority of my time outside at the beach. winter, spring, summer and fall. pebbly beaches along the sound, sandy dunes along the ocean, beach grasses and willowy reeds dominate the vegetation and, so, seeing cattails is like seeing home.

the next time we go there i’ll spend a good bit of time at those beaches. it will be time to reclaim them, to reclaim that place.

it is no surprise to learn that these plants that pull at my heart – cattails – are resilient and adaptable, persistent and resourceful, able to flourish in all kinds of circumstances and under adverse conditions.

spiritually, they symbolize peace and tranquility – the very things i always felt at those beaches back in the day, the same thing i feel as we hike through portions of our trail where we are dwarfed by the cattails surrounding us.

i slow down in those sections, soaking up the denseness of these stands on both sides of the trail. seagulls and red-winged blackbirds elicit the same when i spot them – they zip around and i stand – transported back in time to the marshland on my way to crab meadow or the dunes surrounded by sand fencing on fire island. i stand in memory. no wonder i love this trail.

we arrive back home after hiking – a tiny bit sunburned, our legs tired. the grasses and daylilies in the front yard greet us as we pull in. they are robust and their greeting is in chorus. and i realize that these, too, are the plants of the island. these grasses, these daylilies, spilling-over hydrangea, the ferns in the back, the hosta, sweet lavender…they are the plantings of the waterfront; they are familiar.

we surround ourselves purposefully – and sometimes unintentionally – with things that help us, things that feel good, things that ground us. we sink roots deep and move in the wind like the reeds in marshes, like cattails in a summer storm. we are resilient and flexible, making do with workarounds and chutzpah. we survive and have unlimited ability to thrive.

we are just like the cattails.

those plants that feel like home.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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board by board. [not-so-flawed wednesday]

it is a distinct sound – footfall on boardwalk. and somewhere in there, echoic memory rises. and crab meadow, sunken meadow, fire island, hilton head, atlantic city all fly to the front of my mind. even a boardwalk on a vegetation-dense mountain trail in pisgah national forest. anywhere my feet had hit the boards, with that hollow suspended-above sound.

and as we start to cross the marsh on this trail on the lake michigan coast, i want to slow down, to revisit each of those other places.

i’ve spent an inordinate amount of time on crab meadow beach’s small boardwalk. it’s the place i’d stop and empty the sand from my shoes after long walks on the beach. it’s the place – other than the tree in my growing-up side yard – where i did the most life-processing.

every other boardwalk elicits particular viewmaster frames etched in my memory. the planter’s peanuts store on atlantic city’s boardwalk when i was kid, my planter’s peanut pencil clutched in my hand. fire island lighthouse exploration as a late teen, blankets and coppertone in the dunes. hilton head island and treasured family time. a christmas hike in the north carolina mountains.

the limbic system kicked in the moment my feet hit the boards. and i pause in conversation, remembering. it’s like a kaleidoscope of images, a mix-up of boarded walkways.

our deck makes noise too. as you walk across, it creaks, giving up its age, telling tales of tiny children, family dinners, dance parties, ukulele rehearsals, quiet happy hours, silent time on the steps spent staring, watching the grass grow, treasured dogs-through-time napping. it has seen sparklers and bubbles, sunset skies and meteor showers, deep drifts of snow and umbrella-ed hot sun. it has earned its creaks and groans. it joins the photo album of boardwalks.

so, i go slow across the expanse over the marsh. i take my time, drinking in the tall cattails on either side. the warm humid air partners with the distinct sound of this wooden walkway and gets stored in my brain.

and one day, the next boardwalk day, whenever that is, the dopamine will rush forward as i – in the present and in magical memory – walk, step by step, board by board.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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lighthouse, lighthouse. [k.s. friday]

“my lighthouse, my lighthouse, shining in the darkness, i will follow you…

my lighthouse, my lighthouse, i will trust the promise, you will carry me safe to shore…”.*

the first person i think of when i see a lighthouse is crunch. we spent so much time together going from long island lighthouse to long island lighthouse, it’s an instant connect. i sent him this photo of the light on the kenosha channel leading into the harbor.

we are lucky to live close to this harbor area. any day we don’t feel like getting in littlebabyscion or big red to drive out to a trail we walk down along the lake. it’s beautiful. and never the same. the foghorn sounds through misty days and is like the sound of mourning doves – gentle, somewhat wistful, always welcome.

as much as i think about mountains, i have been – my whole life – a sea-level-girl. i’ve never lived far from water – big water. long island sound, the atlantic ocean, the gulf of mexico, lake michigan. i’d go walk the beach winter, spring, summer, fall. i’d take my red ball-and-chain round am/fm transistor radio and a beach towel and soak up summer sun. i’d go snorkeling or diving or boating or fishing. it used to be – and still is true – that big water (and small water) is healing for me. it gives me breath.

“in my wrestling and in my doubts
in my failures you won’t walk out
your great love will lead me through
you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh
you are the peace in my troubled sea

in the silence, you won’t let go
in the questions, your truth will hold
your great love will lead me through
you are the peace in my troubled sea, oh oh
you are the peace in my troubled sea“*

the lighthouse. it’s not hard to grasp the lyricist’s meaning. the divine – whatever or whoever that is for each of us – stays with us, holds us, holds on, lights the way. i suppose i should delve further into this songwriter’s political leanings and social consciousness, for i have found that many of the artists in this genre are hypocritically biased and sway away from equality, instead, lurking in the fringes of extremism. but for right now, i just want to remain – momentarily – a little bit uninformed. for this moment, i want to linger in some beautiful lyrics, a powerful song that my ukulele band sang many, many times.

the lighthouse of the harbor here is red. fire island lighthouse is black and white. montauk point lighthouse is white with a brick red stripe.

with those, time spent adrift at sea is lit, protection is concentrated candlepower.

our own personal lighthouses – those wise ones around us, our god, our universe-mother-earth – they light the way. countless times i have felt the strong arms of someone carrying me to shore, helping me breathe in the midst of the storm, holding steady in the turmoil.

“light their way when the darkness surrounds them. give them love, let it shine all around them.” (richard carpenter)
lighthouses. even on the top of a mountain, even in the desert, even in the amber waves.

“life is slippery. here, take my hand.” (h. jackson browne, jr., author)

the h. jackson browne, jr. card is in my studio. it reminds me that lighthouses aren’t the only lighthouses.

“fire before us, you’re the brightest;
you will lead us through the storms…” (*rend collective)

*****

ADRIFT ©️ 1996 kerri sherwood

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read DAVID’S thoughts this K.S. FRIDAY

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beachgrass and self-care. the same. [d.r. thursday]

and i can imagine that i have carefully laid down a blanket on the dunes of fire island or smith point park further east. i can hear the surf rolling and i can feel the sun on my face, warm sand heating the blanket under me. the grasses sway in the breeze and i can hear the tiniest gasps of music from a radio playing a long distance away. it is a piece of heaven.

and so much a piece of my memory that i could feel it when i looked at this through-the-grasses photo taken in my midwest front yard. things that are visceral.

i imagine that the next time i see the atlantic ocean or even long island sound, i will feel the same way as when i first see the mountains or pass into the canyons. it takes me by surprise every time, though i don’t know why i’m surprised. yet it’s overwhelming. the mountains. the ocean. for different reasons and for the same reason. it suddenly occurs to me – all at once and little by little – that i am but a tiny piece of this vastness. were i to not feel it, it would still exist. i am lucky enough to feel it.

i am writing this – a few days ahead – on my birthday. i just had a glorious breakfast in bed, a phone call with my beloved daughter. i’ve opened cards and read text messages and facebook posts. it is sunny and very cold and we will wrap up in warm clothes and go take a hike somewhere.

i was awake in the middle of the night. my beloved son texted me just after midnight. and then i laid awake.

the quilt and i talked about life until david woke up hearing our murmurings. we watched a trail or two and then, the wisdom of the wander women, amazing thru-hiking backpackers of a certain age. they talked about their feet, which got my attention. issues with their feet. bunions. arthritis. toes turning. they recommended tiny gel-rubber wedges and orthotics, ways to honor their own self-care.

suddenly i found tears streaming down my face. as a person who, for instance, wears a wrist brace and a finger splint to sleep, i have – for some reason – labeled this, in a kind of deprecating why-do-you-need-this way, as high-maintenance, a weakness. hearing them – “solution-oriented” – dedicated to gently and intentionally caring for their “gracefully aging bodies” so that they could go and DO – was visceral. i could feel their self-love, and the support they had for each other in that self-love, in thriving, just like i could feel the sun on my face and warm sand under me. not a weakness. no…instead, indeed, a strength. it was a moment for me.

i don’t imagine that i will weep when i try the gel wedges in my hiking boots. i don’t imagine that i will cry if i place an insole under my foot. though maybe i will. it’s not exactly the same as revisiting the mountains or catching the first glimpse of the ocean. but i might be underestimating it.

the beachgrass protects the dunes, trapping windblown sand. it preserves the beach, the barrier islands against severe wave or wind or storm. we work to secure ecosystems in the mountains, protecting vegetation and animals from destruction the best we can, preservation for water and energy.

last night, in the middle of the night as i moved from 62 to 63, i was reminded again: that though i am tiny-in-vast, just like each of us, we are – yes – here to feel it. with all the trappings and obstacles and challenges and gloriouses – we are responsible to care for our bodies – the best we can. to love each inch, despite anything. to support each other in that care.

to realize – suddenly – that finger splints and tiny gel wedges are the same as beachgrasses, really. all part of the same world. it really all counts the same.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this D.R. THURSDAY

a day at the beach: mixed media 38×52
spoons and sandcastles: mixed media 28×57.5

A DAY AT THE BEACH, SPOONS AND SANDCASTLES ©️ 2017, 2018 david robinson