Tag Archives: beach

Sinking Deeper

It’s our last morning here on the Island. The time always goes by too fast. Another summer gone. We have been coming here, to this very same cottage, for 13 years now. This place has been a constant in our lives since Megan was a baby.  

And here we are, on our last day, again. So we make our way down to the beach for one last walk. 

I don’t know if I’m ever more consistently grateful than I am when I come here. Long ago we traded the kitschy tourist part of the Island for the easy, relaxing, unhurried and unplanned part of the PEI. We spend our days bicycling the trails that run seemingly non stop beside the ocean, walking the beaches looking for sea glass, making hodgepodge with Island New potatoes and treating ourselves to our favourite flavour of COWS ice cream.

I whisper thank you here so often. This place where we were always allowed to come. 

As the kids walk steps ahead of me I stop. And the ocean, whose tide is still high, sends its waves over my bare feet. I look down and take in the moment. I am, at the same time ready in my ‘mind’ to leave the Island, but I am still never quite ready to go in my ‘heart’.

I close my eyes and whisper, out loud, as I always do, these words that have become second nature to me. “Thank you”. And as I whisper them I feel my feet sinking deep into the sand. I’m standing on that soft sand that is at the edge of the ocean as the tide begins to turn from high to low. And I realize at that very moment, with that very metaphor, that is what this summer has been all about for me. Sinking deeper into myself.  

I love that feeling. A place and a season with fewer screens and sometimes fewer people. A place where I’m not defined by the outside world quite as much, but instead by the quiet moments both with myself and my family, that are sometimes never shared with the world at all. A place where I allow myself to completely unplug, both literally and figuratively, for an entire week. A place where we come … ‘always’ the four of us … but at the same time ‘only’ the four of us.

I’m so thankful for this place, for this season, and for this feeling of sinking more into myself. Of not allowing the outside world to be quite the priority I allow it to be during the other seasons or the other places. It grounds me and allows me the time, and almost the permission, to ask myself the bigger questions. The harder questions. The questions I never take the time for because I am too busy or too focused on other things. And in turn a time where I am more apt to listen to myself answer those questions.

This is so important to me. In a world where there is nothing but white noise – a place and a season where I can clearly hear myself. My own voice. My own heart. Without outside influence. Without en masse opinion or approval.

I look again at my feet in the sand. Completely buried now as the tide has ebbed and flowed again and again. Literally sinking deeper. Into the sand. Into myself. It’s the best feeling in the world. 

I breathe in. I breathe out. 

Soon summer will be over. 

Soon I will have to lift my feet out of this comforting sand, and get back to a larger reality.

Soon. 

Soon.

But, thankfully I whisper, not … quite … yet.

Every Year I Forget

Every year I forget. I forget that this place has a tangible feel to it. I forget that that feeling begins at the curve in the road, about ten minutes from our destination, and that it grows from there … when I see Crescent, and then the general store and finally the sign. And even then I forget how tangible it really is until I step out of the truck and breathe in that air. That sometimes-foggy, often-cool, but always-salty sea air. Yes. I always forget. But at that moment, as I take a deep breath in, every single moment and memory seems to come rushing back to me all at once. And I remember.

I think we all have a place like this. A place that is not home, because home is of course unparalleled; but also because home brings with it laundry, and calendars, and dirty dishes, and broken porch steps, and to do lists, and responsibility.  

I think we all have a place where we breathe a little easier and become less burdened from the very moment we arrive. A place that seems to be waiting for us; and when we arrive seems to say ‘I’m so glad you are back. I’ve missed you.’

I’m lucky to have two such places. Today I’m spending the weekend at one of them.

This place has a memory to it. It has seen so many versions of myself, and they all come flooding back the moment I step on that white sand.

There’s North Rissers where Melinda and I thought we had the world by the tail as 12 year old girls, giggling and exploring while tenting with my parents. There were the beach days with Sean, my head-over-heels first love (could have that time been any more “beginning of Grease? Haha!) There’s my first girlfriend road trip in my 1980 Thunderbird with Julie, Tonya and Jennifer, setting up tents … thinking that summers would always be this easy and fun. There were summer cottages with my parents as I got older, where the door was always open; and as we came and went we always returned with seemingly half the beach on our flip flops and towels.

There was camping with Michelle and Dave in Site 28 during that time as young couples in our 20s when we only had to be responsible for ourselves. And of course there’s the place on the boardwalk where Craig pulled out the diamond I still wear on my left hand and proposed to me at sunset. 

And then came the kids, and this place became so much more. The memories of them toddling along the beach, making sandcastles until my knees hurt, grandparents around the campfire, the endless hunts for sandollars, the ice creams at the canteen and the countless friends they’ve brought with them in the trailer.  They are making their own memories now, and camping here each year has become as important to them as it has been for me. 

Yes, the minute I step on the beach all of it comes flooding back. And I realize how grateful I am to have such a place that holds so many of my memories year after year, consistently and gently. A place that wants nothing from me. No pressures or expectations. No appointments or commitments. A place I can get away to, where my head empties and my soul fills up. I’ve been coming here since I was a child, and it astounds me how I’ve never become complacent about its beauty, nor its ability to calm my senses.

Every year I forget. But then, in an instant, with that rush of air and sand on my feet, I remember. And silently with a barefooted step, I close my eyes and whisper my gratitude, for this place … this place that we always make time for, without fail, each year … this place that will forever be a part of me.