Summer is blowing by me with a light breeze. The mornings come too early, the nights fall too fast, and the months drop off week by week, and day by day. In little less than eight sleeps I will say hello to the oldest city in North America, my birthplace, and a legend that I have not seen in over twelve years.
In less than thirty days, I leave the Island of Newfoundland behind, and head back to Halifax, friends, and with my finished manuscript in hand. I sit and think of all the memories created this summer, of all the adventures I have had, and the glorious stories I have yet to tell. Yet, there are so many images flashing through my mind, and it is not possible to place them all in print...the wonders of the eye for a world to see.
But, I will give it a go as they say. Imagine if you will, finding yourself under an onslaught of memories and delights that you pick and pull from the air. Then asking if you may please have some more. The following is a small glimpse into what a summer in Gros Morne holds for the lucky few that venture out to the Island of Newfoundland. Here you go, and may you enjoy.
I watched as waves evaporated over a pebbled beach, listened as they faded back into the ocean, a foamy wake clattering over wet rocks. Time has plainly left its presence here as layers of white and silver streak through solid stones; trees bent backwards by the force of strong winds, yet they grow so proud and oh they are so resilient. My Island.
Rains fall and the fog sweeps in like a fisherman throwing his net out into the calm sea; the sun rising high in the sky, splintering rays of light and serendipity for all to see. Grass so soft that it begs to be felt by bare of foot; waters so deep with whispers of old wrecks and lost ghosts that sleep underneath. My Island.
Cliffs of wonder and crags of awe, a dory softly slapping against a wooden wharf, while a sun sets over a cove and a lighthouse grants entry for the weary soul. A safe passage into a land of strength and might, permission to come for a day but allowance to rest for many a night. My Island.
The moon it rises, the sun it sets, and outside the world continues its hurried pace; lost amongst the trials of war and control, a tiny island stands alone in the calamity of the sea. It is not forgotten and I pray it never will be. Rocky shores turn to mountains of wisdom, while a mist gathers off the salt water draft, and the birds buffet on a current like sails on the wind. My Island.
The days draw short and the nights grow dim. I stand on a perch and watch ships sail in. Inside I can hear the audible click of a tick and a tock, as time tells me there is still some left but yet it is passing oh so quickly. My Island.
Soon, not so far away, I will be walking on streets that need no name, just memories of a different age and a different way. I long to see my home, I long to see old faces, and I long to see narrows coves and wooden benches. My blood it tingles, my heart it races, and my mind it asks for patience...not so long now, young one, and not so far to go. My Island.
I know it is not long before I will say goodbye to it again. And so I breathe in and I breathe out. I take my memories and truss them into my bag of stories and know one day they will be out to play again.
Walk barefoot in the grass, taste the wind on your tongue, and travel to the lands where you are known and where you are from. Climb higher and higher still, catch the uncatchable dream, and may your days be only a reminder that the best is yet to come. Follow your path. Build your road. Let your soul run free. Until we meet again, people, until we meet again.
"You know I'm a dreamer but my heart's of gold; I had to run away high so I wouldn't come home low." - Vince Neil of Motley Crue
