Friday, September 16, 2016

Rockwalking


Everyone has heard of rock-climbing, and I used to be pretty good at it until I hit fifty, menopause, osteoarthritis, and such-like, with the inherent drop in strength and agility. So since I can't climb up I have shifted to climbing over. I am not talking about bouldering or traversing, which are forms of rock-climbing, usually without a rope, on low areas where falling just means sore ankles not death. No, even traversing is beyond me now, or should I say above me.


My new rock activity is just trying to get from A to B over rocky terrane, and it is more challenging than you might think. As you can see in the map above, a range of low pink and grey granite mountains runs from the end of the beach behind our cottage and away north to Labrador. At low tide you can sneak past most of the rocks and make it to two bays that are hidden not too far beyond. Sometimes, like today, you have to walk through knee-deep freezing water. Other times you can scramble over the rocks to get to the first bay. But to get to the second bay you always need to cross over rocks, unless you have a kayak, or you are willing to swim a good distance in very cold water.


Now these rocks are solid. Mostly. But this is not a sidewalk. There is no clear path. You have to make decisions about the route you will take based on myriad factors: access, difficulty, water, seaweed, flatness, angles, distance between possible footholds, and also, in my case, will the dog be able to follow safely. As I was rock-walking this morning it struck me that it is a very meditative activity. I remember that was one of the things I liked about rock-climbing; you can only be in the moment when you are moving up a cliff-face, the task demands that kind of focus as you choose a handhold and shift your body to the next potential clinging point. And, surprisingly perhaps, rock-walking demands a similar focus. There are places in between first and second bay where I can only look at my feet as I move from one rock to the next. The ground is not level, and the seaweed between the rocks is extremely slippery. If you fall down, the landing is not soft. Also, I walk alone and far from help, and although I bring my cellphone for safety reasons, it would take a long time for someone to arrive.


When I thought about rock-walking as meditation, I also started thinking about what a good metaphor it is for life: you choose what you think is the best path, but sometimes there are surprises, a rock shifts, your foot slips, a wave comes up higher than you expected; sometimes what looked like a good path doesn't quite pan out and you need to turn back; sometimes it looks impossible and yet if you just try, and keep taking one small step at a time, you eventually succeed and it feels great; sometimes your foot slips and you soak your shoe; and when you are done, and you are climbing back down, sometimes the easiest way is to turn around and go down backwards, using "hindsight" to watch your feet while you almost crawl like a toddler, turned around and using you hands to support yourself safely. As I age, I am learning to take the time to support myself in what ever way I need, and I actually think that is a pretty good thing.

As autumn arrives, each time I go rock-walking to second bay I wonder if it is the last time, at least for the year, but maybe forever, as I lose more mobility. And although this is a sad thought, it also makes me fierce about continuing to keep going as long as I am able.

Monday, September 5, 2016

Tidelines


Every twelve hours or so
 the sea reaches its highest point
 then ebbs back, 
pulling away 
from the line that marks high tide. 

Sometimes, several tides in a row
 are lower than those previous, 
and you can see 
a series of lines 
that show the high water mark. 

This line is traced by shells and sticks, 
or sometimes 
you can simply see 
that the sand looks slightly different, 
more packed down, 
or rippled in a different pattern. 

As you walk across these tidelines 
it is as though you are travelling through time. 
Like sawing through the rings of winter's passage 
that circle the trunk of a century old maple, 
or snow-blowing along a wall of white, 
revealing the layers of icy snow 
compacted over the winter. 
Or like an archeologist 
reading history 
from stratifications 
in the earth's crust on the wall of a quarry. 


The tidelines 
show the days that have passed by, 
maybe the last days of summer. 
And then 
a really high tide will rise above them all and start the patterns all over again.