Participles and Portents

Beginnings:

The fine salt-spray lifts from the rocks to tangle my hair as I gaze at the sea, my lonely promonitory shared by only a few gulls and the weak shafts of light that are just now beginning to break as the sun rises higher to greet the day. I have traveled here on this sojourn to find the parts of me I have lost over the years. This place feels ripe for the task with its jagged landscape, home to many a wayfarer who found refuge from the sea on its rough-edged shore. As the sun begins to strengthen I breathe deeper and turn to make my way back down my little path to the small thatched cottage that will be my home for this summer. It is time for some tea and perhaps some brown bread, if my stomach has the courage to face it this morning.

What I find when I enter my refuge is a far cry from what I expect. My neatly shelved items are spread about: the bread is crumbled on the floor, tea shaken from its tin. My evening shawl has been dragged from the hearth chair and lies in the muck from the fire. Only my sleeping chamber seems undisturbed.

I can find nothing that tells me of who or what has caused this damage. I find it hard to believe that even the strong winds that blow here could have managed this. The bread seems to have been crushed. I sigh. “No big matter,” I mumble to myself. It was time for a trip into the village. I can clean this easily enough. And this I do. When things have been set to rights and I have washed up, I make sure to bar the door against the wind and what I assume are animal intruders. Then I set off to the village to refresh my stores.

The crisp wind and bright sun lighten my spirits as I make my way up the stony path into the village. I find myself laughing along with the children as they chase a ball that has gotten away from the pitch. I try reminding myself that here the game is not soccer, but it is useless. I still think of it in my native ways. I make my purchases sparingly, knowing I will want to come back soon. Mine is a solitary existence and the trips to the village give me time with people. I have come to know a few, not well, but enough to greet by name, and I am hoping this will grow to more over the months I will be here.

By the time I leave a mist has risen and I can tell that the rain will fall soon. The midday rain seems like a ritual here on the craggy shore. I pull my shawl over my head and start down the path, my head tilted downward to ward off the rain when it starts and to check the path for ruts. I am caught up in my thoughts, rummaging around in the attic of my past and do not even notice that I have gone down instead of climbing at the curve that should have taken me toward my little cottage. And this is how I find myself near the sharp crags and the roar of the sea as the rain begins. In fact, it is the howl of the sea as it rages and throws itself against the rock that breaks my trance.

I stand there transfixed by the sheer power of its rage as the rain soaks me through to the bone. Finally I realize that I should find some shelter. Through the haze of the sea mist and the pouring rain I glimpse the possibility of relief, an outcropping of rock that appears to have just enough of a cleft to hide me and my basket from the worst of nature’s fury. I pick my way carefully, grateful that I am not weighed down by old-fashioned skirts and that my boots are thick-soled and meant for climbing. I do note, glumly, that I miss my gloves. I guess I am not as practical as I had thought. Eventually, I make it to my little piece of shelter and am relieved to find it is dry. In fact, it provides just enough space for me to slide down with my back against the rock and sit, knees against my chest, and peer out at the raging rain and sea. I wish I had my notebook to try and capture this place and its look and feel on the page. It is with this thought that I let myself drift off to sleep, lulled by the constant rhythm of nature’s protest.