Reflecting

The last time I came to Cumberland Island was nothing but magic, so this time I let go of any expectation in the way of knowing nothing could match the previous experience. While I gladly and blissfully receive bits of magic along most paths I walk, I never expect any of it. I return to many places again and again and again, but never the same place twice. Like the river… 

The last time was just before embarking on an epic journey deeper into healing (massage school) and after a difficult period of dwindling resources. Well, I guess you could say things aren’t that different this time, though 12 years have passed and so much richness along the way. This time it is after a few years of pandemic, and the ensuing struggle to start over from scratch with my business that had only in 2019 finally plateaued at a level I found sustaining. 

Last time here, I thought there would be harsh weather and deep solitude in relative wilderness (of place and self), and was met with a depth of family and familiars I rarely see much less experience. See http://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/2011/02/magic.html?m=0

This time I came with a friend and enjoyed much milder weather, although it was the same days of the year. I intended to greet the island with the friendliness with which one meets a kindred acquaintance the second time for deeper communing. And I had received so much from the island before that this time I was leaning in the direction of offering myself to the island - my presence and anything else I could come up with in the moment. At the very least a soft and loving gaze and tender soles. 

This time, what I came home with was a continuous stream of deep and soul-stirring moments - images in time and space that seemed to resonate between worlds. In spite of the increase in human disturbance and the din of machinery, near and far, I was able to feel into the wild gentleness of this place. Gifts more fleeting than material, and more cumulative than iconic. Ironically, though I came over with a friend, I found more solitude and less camaraderie than before. Seems like life so often happens contrary to logic - or as my friend JH says, "contra natura". 

So this time, what I carry with me into the days ahead are these reflections...

I am the lone loon, drifting between long dives at the ferry landing. 

I am the lumpy, winding path of detour for those who take signs too literally. 

I am the old silver haired mare, staring out across the ocean 

as if mourning a long lost love.

I am the one who startles a white doe, crossing the dune with her young piebald buck. 

What does it mean to be white?

I am the dusky lavender haze, looking toward the golden sunset 

from more miles away than I can count.

I am the dark horse grazing the dune grasses before dawn. 

I am the surprise of a constellation of black birds, 

riffling the air like tiny flags in a mini murmuration overhead.

I am soft feet, making trails through rough woods, 

saw palmetto clacking nearby.

I am an ancient oak, heavy with centuries, 

shells littered about my trunk from those who rest and eat here. 

I am the wild orange, bursting with juice at the first cut, 

so seedy, so delicious and so sour it almost hurts.

I am four small boars, trotting merrily along, 

singing a creaky song about nothing, and everything. 

I am a fragment of horse jaw, still holding molars.

I am the tall vertebra that was the withers of the wild horse 

who had no cause to be measured. 

I am an aged cedar, long fallen down on the riverbank, 

roots still reaching for soil, still giving fruit and shade to the birds.

I am the sulfur shelf mushroom, drawing people together to share.

I am the blessing of a grape vine basket, made by an elder’s hands, 

offered in generous reciprocity.

I am the little wild horse, bringing up the rear along the northbound trail.

I am the armadillo, making holes in the world.

I am the wild dunes, white as snow, 

and the myriad trails of all who pass in the night, unseen.

I am the puffy and wispy clouds, sliding out to sea, 

as if pulled by the outgoing tide. 

I am the moon, waxing three quarters, 

pulling the tide back in. 

I am two species, adapted to grow as one, 

in a lifelong embrace.

I am the lonely screech owl, purring overhead, 

crickets keeping lopsided time down below in the bushes.

I am the muffled roar of the surf, carried in moist droplets across the broad dunes in the cooling before sunrise.

I am the glistening porpoise, breaking the surface near the wake as the ferry pushes carefully into the blanket of fog enshrouding the wild island, 

as if to acknowledge what delicate magic remains 

across this riverine threshold from the everyday “civilized” world. 

I am that same lone loon sounding his plaintive call from the blind of fog, 

remembering us to primordial truth.