Semi-Wild
“True
wildness is a love of nature, a delight in silence, a voice to say spontaneous
things, and an exuberant curiosity in the face of the unknown.”
Robert
Bly
The
Trinity Center is 600 acres of dense forests sculpted by the wind. The buildings, used to house
summer campers and Episcopal Church groups are discretely set into the middle of
this forest so as not to be obtrusive. The constant sound of the surf, the
calls of sea birds and the random chirps and chortles of other songbirds, form
the backdrop for this semi-silent retreat. Paths under the canopy are shady and
easy to follow because the sand is so light in comparison. There is signage
everywhere—outside and inside, to keep old folks, like me, from getting lost.
There are modern touches, like a fountain in the middle of a saltwater pond, and a
tall cupola on the top of our lodge, reached by a spiral staircase and offering
a great view of the beach and the treetops. Besides our group of 8, there are
several classes of students, about 100 kids, eight to eighteen, here to study environmental
science. We hardly know they are on site because they stay on the other side of
the campus and have their meals on the other side of the dining hall. Whoever
designed Trinity Center knew what they were doing.
We’re
told by the kitchen staff (who by the way do a great job with 3 meals a day),
that a quilters group will be here this morning and will set up their machines
and sew like crazy in a building just off the dining hall. I can’t wait to see
what they are doing. The silence ends when we leave the house, so we can talk aloud
on the beach and at meals, and at night after our gathering. We make the most
of that, believe me. There’s been very little in the way of back-talk, or
grouchiness, and when it does arise, it’s handled with compassion.
I
cannot say that this place brings out the wildness in me, but it offers an
opportunity to be in touch with it. Hanging out in the forest, ambling about
the acres and acres of sea scape, and watching the crashing Atlantic surf, remind me that I’m not that different from
the wild ponies. I can exercise my curiosity about the place and its inhabitants,
both human and non, about the women in our group, who are telling their stories
each night, and about myself. Why is it that I just want to sit in the wind and
sun and watch sandpipers run in the surf, without a thought in my mind about what
to write. Sometimes introverts are like that—everything comes in hindsight. So,
I sit, I remain open to the muse, and I wait. In the meantime, I listen and ask
questions and gather interesting sidebars of information. Perhaps it will
coalesce into a good story—perhaps not. I trust that I am here for a reason.
In
the Spirit,
Jane
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