every morning on island i grabbed the phone and, usually still with pjs on, walked outside, to water’s edge, to take a picture. in this way i have an amazing collection of the moody displays of our little bay-of-lake-michigan during the months we were there. living right on the water was a gift…it balanced out all the other-ness of our time there…a collection of life and work and its challenges and joys from back at home as well as on our new little island.
we continue to be grateful to deb, who is generously sharing the magic of this sweet littlehouse with us as we live there. many times this summer and early fall we would get a text message from her house around the cove, pointing out the moonrise or the glittering of sun on the lake…gentle reminders of what was really important.
as fall rolls into winter i will miss sharing that bay and hog island with d and with deb-just-around-the-bend. i will miss the lake as it greets the day and lingers at day’s end. i will miss the sound of gentle waves and deeply unsettled surf.
i know that each tide brought with it new hurdles, new hiccups, new pitfalls. provocation is alive and well. but each tide also brought with it new triumphs, new delights, new joys, new learnings. inspiration is alive and well.
there is a moment when the sky turns a delicious shade of pink as the sun sets in the western horizon. each beyond-the-crayon-box-color doesn’t last long; they morph into the next color and then the next. each second, as you watch, counts.
there is a moment when before-night turns into after-day. crossing the pink.
“live in the present/grab onto this time/don’t look behind you/you gotta walk that thin line/of the future and the past/it’s all within your grasp/that second could come way too fast”
there is a moment – one that probably occurs multiple times a day – when you can choose how to react to things. you can linger in the not-taking-it-personally-they-are-hurting-you-not-because-you-are-you-but-because-they-are-them zone or you can step over the line and bite back. crossing the pink. everyone in relationship recognizes this. any relationship, be it spouse-spouse, significant others, parent-child, child-parent, colleagues, supervisor-employee, employee-supervisor, drivers stuck in traffic, customer-customer service rep, strangers in a long grocery line. not biting back doesn’t render you powerless; instead, in the hardly-ever-easy not-taking-it-personally, it aids in your health and well-being. you choose. crossing the pink.
“you look in the mirror/today’s world stares back”
there is a moment – a split second – when you stand still and see all that was behind, all that is here and now. it is impossible to see all that is possible, for surely if you were back many pink crossings ago you would not have imagined the now of now.
and so, this split second should tell us that we have no idea, that our imaginings of the future are both wildly over-feared and inconceivably understated, that with each split-second breath we take, we cross the pink into another split-second that is filled with hope of new. but sheesh, we are human and we are worried, fearful, guilt-ridden, persistently trying to figure out what we did wrong to elicit ‘such a response’, repeatedly weighing everything, sorting, feeling powerless.
what if we stayed in the moment of delicious pink, watching the sun promise rest and a new day.
“take it slow/don’t let this moment go/it’s here and it’s now/use this gift somehow”
we canoed out to hog island. it is a bird sanctuary and so we could not get out to walk around the giant rock that it actually is. seagulls and pelicans, terns and geese congregate on this tiny island and they are protected, their habitat is protected.
each morning, each evening i stand at water’s edge and gaze out on the lake toward little hog island. i watch as the lake changes, sometimes hourly. i can hear the birds out on that island, the waterfowl, the screeching seagulls, cranes in the distance. behind me, david is busy with his sketchbook, drawings passing through his hands, fodder for later paintings. for me, standing there, lyrics pass through my mind. i breathe slower and without paper i try to remember them, try to remember the melody that flits through, beckoning me to follow it. i jot it all down once inside, fodder for later songs.
we walk usually every day. sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. we take the same path that leads us about three miles, watching the woods as they change. there is a place we pass, fenced in and covered with some kind of netting, a low building in the distance. two months ago, we had no idea what it was all for. but as time has passed, the pheasants have grown and now we can see them in the enclosed area. they are protected. for now. because we understand that they soon will be released. as soon as the dnr hunting season starts. i stand, staring at them through the woods, through the fence and i breathe slower, tears starting. it is hard for me to have walked this way every day now, knowing they are right there, peeping and crowing, growing, unaware. not knowing, i imagine the worst – like ‘the hunger games‘ – release them and then chase them down. it makes me shudder.
a bird sanctuary. a bird farm. the juxtaposition is like the lake – fickle and hard to understand. one minute serene and calm and protected, the next churned up with irregular-rhythm-waves that batter the shore, dangerous and unprotected.
i wish that the pheasants were on hog island instead of around the block.
reverse threading 