Searching the Shoreline

“Searching my heart for its true sorrow,

This is the thing I find to be:

That I am weary of words and people,

Sick of the city, wanting the sea.

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness

Of strong wind and shattering spray.

Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound

Of the big surf that breaks all day…”

Edna St. Vincent Millay (from “Exiled”)

          I haven’t written much at this writer’s retreat—instead, I’ve sauntered around and absorbed the view. The Atlantic beaches are wide and flat, hard enough to drive a car on, and yesterday, the departing tide left lots of shells and pieces of shells on the sand. Like deserts, oceans are not all the same—the Pacific is far more rambunctious with waves higher than and man’s head. The Atlantic waves are more respectful, and of course, the Caribbean is like a bathtub.

         

I collected a few shells, mostly broken ones, examined washed up jelly fish and spent muscle shells. The beach is clean, no seaweed, and no driftwood. One of the women in my group found a whole pineapple, a large, sweet potato and some oranges washed up—we made up a dramatic story about the grocery barge that turned over in a great swell; the coast guard was called in but could only save the crew, not the fruit—either that or they drifted over from Jamaica.

        

  I discovered some unusual trees. A small stand of them with striped bark—red, white, and tan. And one with a large hole in the trunk. I tried to peer inside to see who might be living there, but alas, no tenant. This retreat center occupies 600+ acres of land and its managers have had the good sense to leave it as natural as possible.

          I am warming up to the other women—everyone is here to write about whatever is on their hearts. Many of them have gone through major life events and are finally at a point they can write about it. I think some are just here for the camaraderie. I haven’t figured out why I’m here yet—mostly I’ve walked and photographed and sketched and eaten. But of course, I am writing to you, to share with you whatever these days hold for me. Perhaps that’s writing enough.

                                                  In the Spirit,

                                                  Jane