Dungeon, Bonavista, Newfoundland, Canada. I sit with Amelia Curran staring out over the heartachingly rugged, serene scape. Gulls perched on jagged cliffs, foreground and background, whales spouting in distant pods. Free roaming sheep and horses, ocean til forever. Nothing to say. No dumbing this down. We are reminded why we spend our lives feeling and feeling thankful for that, though it’s often misunderstood.

To be stirred in this way relieves me for a moment of my grueling inner grind, heavy heart and struggle to please the details. It inspires and shelters and saves and pleases and saddens and wells desires and wonders why anything and begs what matters. I’m rawly alive and completely alone. Small and insignificant, spilling over gratitude, almost like I wasn’t supposed to witness this, a treasure never to be found; what happens regardless of anyone. There’s no way to properly re-enact this.

I could be crazy, but by the vastness of this ocean I feel sheltered. No way to be reached though the most exposed I could ever be. One foot daring the edge, I feel safe, like everything I’m surrounded by understands my plight.

rose

(ps. to DL and JG: i love you. you have conquered a thousand oceans. congratulations.)