Summer by the Sea

A midsummer morning, I search the summerhouse bookshelves for the short novel "The Country of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. She tells the story of a lone female visitor who arrives at the small coastal town called Dunnet Landing in nineteenth-century Maine, where she finds lodging with the widowed Mrs. Todd, a herbalist. One hundred and forty pages later, we never learn the lady's name. The opening paragraphs of the book capture the joy of anticipation we feel as we begin a summer vacation in a fetching spot. "There was something about the coast town ... which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages ... Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore and dark woods, and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges... When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair." We imagine the view, the perfect place to think, write, paint or simply do nothing at all... "On the brink of the hill stood a little white schoolhouse, much wind-blown and weather-beaten, which was a landmark to seagoing folk; from its door there was a most beautiful view of sea and shore. The summer vacation now prevailed, and after finding the door unfastened, and taking a long look through one of the seaward windows, and reflecting afterward for some time in a shady place among the bayberry bushes, ... I hired the schoolhouse for the rest of the vacation for fifty cents a week." Hear the shutters wobbling back and forth that mimic the wind and waves. Sit at the teacher's desk and see the sheep wander out of a fairytale. "Selfish as it may appear, the retired situation seemed to possess great advantages, and I spent days there quite undisturbed with the sea-breeze blowing through the small high windows and swaying the heavy outside shutters to and fro. I hung my hat and luncheon-basket on an entry nail as if I were a small scholar, but I sat at the teacher's desk as if I was that great authority, with all the timid empty benches in rows before me. Now and then an idle sheep came and stood for a long time looking at the door." Gather with family and friends at the annual reunion. Have a summertime feast, swim, share memories, laugh... "Twas pretty when they sang the hymn, wasn't it?" asked Mrs. Blackett at suppertime, with real enthusiasm... I saw that Mrs. Todd's broad shoulders began to shake. "There was good singers there; yes there was excellent singers," she agreed heartily, putting down her teacup, "but I chanced to drift alongside Mis' Peter Bowden o' Great Bay, an' I couldn't help thinkin' if she was as far out o'town as she was out o'tune, she wouldn't get back in a day." Spend a few hours with a good book by the sea, and embark on a summer odyssey.

A time for every season

  

 

 We are back but irrevocably changed.

"Shaken off our social foundations by a global calamity, an invisible virus we could not see coming, we each found ourselves at the end of certainty and the beginning of faith," writes Joan Chittister in The Monastic Heart. "But where can we start to become what we know, down deep, ourselves to be -- spiritual seekers in search of a way through a serious period, an astounding eruption of normalcy in our lives?"

Climbing the well-worn stairs of the front porch to the accompaniment of birdsong, I insert the key into the lock of the old wooden door, and enter into a new season, unlike any other. Overhead, seagulls circle, and the red maple is about to explode into leaf.

The summer house is asleep, but now it yawns and stirs. It's time to throw open the windows and clear the cobwebs. Listen and you can hear the siren's call, the ancient song of the sea, waves crashing in cadence to the Master's beat.

This is the place where the stuff of childhood and contemporary life intersect. It is forever springtime in childish musings, yet altered by the last two winters of our discontent. 

There is much work to do. Sprinkled like flour, a thin layer of dust blankets every surface. Pushing up the old windows and sliding them into worn slots takes a great show of strength. The freezer door is stuck and needs defrosting. A kitchen towel drawer is dotted with mouse droppings. As the well begins to pump, water circulates like blood through veins. Opening the kitchen faucet, brownish water pulses for five minutes straight, before it clears.

Lying dormant, the summer house has waited patiently for the sound of children playing, the whirr of the lawnmower, the hum of the refrigerator, the play by play of a Red Sox game, and most of all, the gathering of family and friends filling every nook and cranny of the place with laughter.

But right now I alone herald this new and unknown season. I sit in my favorite chair and ponder the future while acknowledging the uncertainty of a return to life as we know it.

Ultimately, we are spiritual seekers traveling on the road of life. We lift our burdens, and despite stumbling, we amble on…

Daffodils dance in the wind along the stone wall.

Red maple buds are ready to burst into leaf.

Frozen in time

We wait... 

In the dead of winter, we are frozen in place.

Temperatures dip, and Arctic winds blow.

Snow falls sporadically, clinging to every tree branch and blade of grass.

We hibernate and pray for an early spring.

The woods beckon, a magical forest draped in winter white.

Behind a stone wall, dormant farmland stretches to the sea.

Freed from the barn, horses clad in blankets brave the cold.

The snowy path to the barn is all uphill.

Under the snow by the stone wall, daffodils bide their time.

A sort of fevered imagination

Blessed with an abundance of imagination by the Creator, I have put it to good use this past year.

“What sort of a fevered imagination you must have,” said Mr. Tilney to Catherine Morland in “Northanger Abbey.”

Ditto.

Thank you, Jane Austen, for describing my chief occupation these days.

Imagination is my coping mechanism when I hear the collective cry of the people on this planet.

We are our brother’s keeper; but with each passing day, we grow farther apart in survival mode.

Consequently, I create the world in my mind that I wish it could be.

While I hide behind my mask, I imagine.

Since I was a child, I have spent my summers by the sea.

However, at the end of each season, we closed up the summer house and locked the door until spring.

“Winter is coming,” my parents would say; and I would no longer hear the sigh of the sea rocking me to sleep, except in my imagination.

This fall I acutely dreaded the separation.

Working remotely at home, I had cabin fever; and our seasonal home became a safe house.

“What if we winterize the summer house and spend our weekends there?” I asked my husband and mother.

And I imagined a little Christmas tree, a manger, an angel on the front door. I would read or write with Mom’s crocheted afghan tucked around me, while the snow fell and the wind howled and the sea roared.

Dressed warmly in my wool coat, I would walk along the seashore wearing its winter face, a solitary woman immersed in the elements yet shielded from the unwelcome drone of the news of our day.

We filled the oil tank and hired a contractor who wrapped the pipes; and Saturdays and Sundays became vacation days again.

While the constant threat of the pandemic looms large in our minds, we leave our worries behind when we step inside the summer house.

Surely there can be sanctuary someplace and sometime in this world, despite Covid-19.

At least, I imagine it so. 

Seaside walkabout

Come to the seashore and walk with me.

Hide from the world awhile among the beach roses.

Stand atop these standing stones and watch the surf slide in.

Sit in sand by the water's edge and listen.

Explore the ocean floor laid bare.

Walk into the waves and wade.

Feel the caress of God's great blue Heaven above.

Summer house beckons in springtime

Awaiting the start of the season, we wander around the summer house, glimpsing the natural world around us. 

Signs of the Creator's handiwork are everywhere: in the brilliant yellow petals of daffodils, the drumming of a woodpecker's bill boring into a tree, and the contented munching of a pair of horses dining on nature's bounty. 

While we soon will awaken the summer house from its long winter's nap, we count the days until we fling open the windows, mow the lawn and roll the barbecue grill out of the shed.

Meanwhile, we sit on the picnic table and dream of sunny days, soft breezes and the soothing sounds of the sea...

A welcoming sight -- daffodils bloom along the
stone wall, while clay pots wait to be filled.

A male downy woodpecker clings to the trunk of our tree,
 while he digs a nest hole with his long pointed bill.

Our quintessential New England seaside town with
 its stone walls, farmland and sea beyond.

Horses graze in a pasture dotted with yellow wildflowers.

Melted snow and abundant spring rains created wetlands, where trees
 stand tall, partly submerged in the middle of a pond.

An Easter reminiscence: Rescue at sea

At this holiest time of year, it is natural to be drawn to the seashore. Many of the Gospel passages place Jesus Christ’s whereabouts near the sea. I am a believer, and I feel His presence here. This is holy ground.

After the Resurrection, St. John writes, “Later, at the sea of Tiberias, Jesus showed himself to the disciples… Just after daybreak Jesus was standing on the shore, though none of the disciples knew it was Jesus… Then the disciple Jesus loved cried out to Peter, ‘It is the Lord!’”

In another passage in the Gospel of St. Mark, he writes that “when evening came, the boat was out on the sea, and (Jesus) was alone on the land. And He saw that they were distressed in rowing, for the wind was against them… He came to them, walking on the sea… He spoke to them and said, ‘Take heart, it is I; have no fear.’ And He got into the boat with them and the wind ceased. And they were utterly astounded.’”

Two thousand years later, I walk along the water’s edge and remember the many times I cried out to the Lord from this very place.

A young newlywed, I recall the night my new husband and brother went fishing and did not return. I still remember the anguish, countless prayers and call to the Coast Guard. They were towed in by the Tiverton Harbor Patrol around midnight, after being entangled in the ropes of a lobster pot near Nannaquaket.

Thirteen years ago, I drove to the summer house on a glorious sunny summer’s day. When I arrived, I was told that my father and brother had taken my youngest son out on the sailboat. But out of the blue, there was a violent lightning storm.

We immediately drove down to the ramp, but they were nowhere in sight. We followed the Sakonnet River by car all the way to Nannaquaket, but all in vain. At this point, my mother, my daughter and I began crying hysterically. I prayed incessantly, pleading for God’s help.

We called the Coast Guard who had great difficulty understanding our plight because we were crying so hard. I called my husband back at home who raced to Tiverton.

After what seemed like hours, the Coast Guard called to say that the Tiverton Harbor Patrol had found them. The sun was shining when they were towed in.

The following fall, my 12-year-old son told the story of his rescue at sea in a school composition:

“My uncle and I and my grandfather were planning to use our sailboat. We watched the Weather Channel to see the weather forecast and the water currents. It said it was going to be fine weather to go sailing. We went to the docks at 9:30. The sun was shining, and the water was choppy. It was very good weather to go sailing. We had a small, 14-foot sailboat. We put it into the water, and my grandfather brought the car to the parking lot. My uncle and I got in the sailboat and waited for my grandfather. He came and our adventure started. Once we got out there, the wind picked up and we were having a good time. Then it started to pour. We were out on the bay, and we could not see anything. We had no idea where we were going. Then it started lightning, and we needed to get out of the water. We had an 18-foot aluminum sail. It was just like a lightning rod. We came upon an island, and we waited. An hour passed, then another. We were so cold and wet. We decided to go even though it was still lightning really badly. We were on our way back. Lightning hit the water right next to us. The wind died, and we were stranded in the middle of the ocean. My grandfather was soaked. We needed to get him warm. After a while, the Tiverton Harbor Patrol found us. So they gave us a rope, and I tied it to the front of the boat. It took them a half an hour to tow us in. We finally made it to shore. My mother was crying because she didn’t know if we would make it back. Everyone was so happy when we made it. After this, I will never believe the Weather Channel again. I don’t know if I will go on the sailboat ever again.”

Sometimes, the Lord walks on water and calms the sea, as well as our fears. Other times, He sends his angels, the Tiverton Harbor Patrol, to rescue us.

On this Easter Sunday and every day of my life, I know He lives.

   

'There are better things ahead than any we leave behind'

A couple seeks sea glass on this blustery, overcast New Year's Day.

Time marches on.

“Still round the corner there may wait, a new road, or a secret gate,” said J. R. R. Tolkien.

Shortly, Fogland will wear its winter wardrobe of snow and ice; and arctic winds will blow. 

Yet come summer, cars, trucks and trailers will cover this horseshoe-shaped cove; and the shack will be open for beach passes.

Boaters towing trailers will wait their turn as they back down the ramp and release their sail and power boats into the Sakonnet.

Windsurfers will careen across the waves.

Children will wade into the water, splashing and screaming with delight.

Dogs will trot by with their owners.

Colorful beach towels will resemble an old-fashioned piecework quilt, awaiting the swimmers return.

Fishermen will cast from the Point into the swift current, hoping to catch the big one.

This place will be teeming with life.

But for now, the beach in January is a blank slate just like a new 2016 calendar with 12 months of empty pages.

“What we call the end is also a beginning. The end is where we start from,” said T. S. Eliot.

We start over and begin anew. 

“What the new year will bring, we cannot know,” said New England author Gladys Taber. “And I think as the new year begins, I might well do some pruning in my own life, keeping the essentials, the real values, and letting go the part that is no longer contributing to the growing time of my spirit.”

Today as I walk along this Rhode Island beach, I give thanks for the gift of another year. The cold, biting wind ushers me along. 

“There are better things ahead than any we leave behind,” said C. S. Lewis.

We just need to take the next step.

Along came a spider...

Beach roses grow along the seashore near our summer house.

Sometimes I can time travel.

Whenever I sit under my favorite tree at the summer place, I am a child again.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time here, mostly reading, thinking and dreaming.

Consequently, I still yearn for solitude on weekend mornings, when I can give my imagination free rein.

So today when I pulled up a chair under that tree, I let my mind wander, expecting to revisit happy summer days. But instead of conjuring up fanciful things, I am fixated on the ugly wound just over my ankle on the inside of my left leg.

I love nature, and I write about God's handiwork in all its manifestations. I even have a healthy respect for insects. Whenever I find a bug inside my house or at work in my office, I carry it outside and give it a second chance.

Lately I have been rescuing lots of gypsy moths. My kids joke that I brake for ants.

A musician, I have performed with a 30-piece concert band for most of my adult life; and a month ago we played in an open grassy field at a beautiful complex.

It was the perfect venue: the sun was shining, a slight breeze blowing and an appreciative audience clapping.

However, midway through one piece, I felt something bite me near my ankle. I am a professional and kept right on playing, even though I am sure I winced.

When the number was over, I quickly changed music and continued with the performance like nothing happened. Frankly, I chalked it up to just another mosquito bite.

Fast forward a day later in the middle of night. I felt feverish, and the two puncture wounds burned and itched. All day I tried to put the sensation out of my mind, but my leg began to swell and the skin was red and on fire.

By the next morning the wound was gigantic and filled with fluid. I took a photo and texted it to my daughter, an eye doctor.

“U need to go to urgent care… that is severe inflammation,” she texted back. “U don’t want that stuff to get into ur body… People get paralyzed from spider venom.”

Ugh!

At urgent care, the doctor did a double take. He said the spider bite was rare and took out a syringe, draining the fluid and sending it to the lab to be tested for black widow and brown recluse.

I went home with a huge bandage wrapped around my leg; instructions for treating cellulitis, an infection of the skin and tissue beneath it; a healthy dose of antibiotic; and a warning to report to the Emergency Room if the conditioned worsened.

A week later I returned to my primary care doctor for a follow-up. “It will take months to heal,” she said.

So today I praise God for the warm sunshine, the gentle lapping of the waves in the distance, the seagulls circling overhead and the birds nesting in nearby branches – but not for the spider. 

Ouch!

Tiverton by sea: A photo essay

Every summer I reread "The Country of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. The first chapter, "The Return," best explains what it means to return to a much-loved place like our summer home at Fogland. She writes:

"There was something about the coast town ... which made it seem more attractive than other maritime villages ... Perhaps it was the simple fact of acquaintance with that neighborhood which made it so attaching, and gave such interest to the rocky shore ... and the few houses which seemed to be securely wedged and tree-nailed in among the ledges... These houses made the most of the seaward view ... the small-paned high windows in the peaks of their steep gables were like knowing eyes that watched the harbor and the far sea-line beyond, or looked northward all along the shore ... When one really knows a village like this and its surroundings, it is like becoming acquainted with a single person. The process of falling in love at first sight is as final as it is swift in such a case, but the growth of true friendship may be a lifelong affair."

A woman reels in a fish as we approach Nanaquaket Bridge.

Navigating the currents near Old Stone Bridge, we follow the boat "Relentless."

The view seaside of the Fogland State Beach ramp.

Passing alongside a moored fishing boat near Nanaquaket.

Chugging past Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, I remember the day I interviewed a former pastor of the congregation. As he stood at the lectern, he began reciting "The Lord's Prayer," and I joined in: "Our Father who art in Heaven hallowed be Thy name... We were two worshippers, a Protestant and a Catholic, praising God with one strong voice.

A striking sailboat with red sails skims the Sakonnet.

After a three-hour tour, we return to the slip at Standish Boatyard.

Psalm of the Sea

I believe that the call of the sea is spiritual in nature.

Akin to a great cathedral, the seashore is a portal to the divine, offering exquisite beauty and a peace that surpasses all understanding.

Come inside. The doors of this holy shrine are opened wide.

Our God dwells here.

Dip your fingers in the font of living water and bless yourself.

Kneel on a patch of sand, cushioning your fall from grace. Ponder your transgressions and rise.

All is forgiven.

The Builder framed the ceiling with Heaven and carpeted the floor with minerals. The walls are waves.

Sit on a pew of solid granite, hewn by ice and warmed by sun.

The congregation gathers. Sandpipers dance near the water’s edge. Families come pushing baby carriages. Dogs drag their owners. Lovers walk hand in hand.  

Sing a psalm of the sea accompanied by the laughter of children, the soaring soprano of seagulls, the putter of powerboats and the pounding surf.

A joyful noise will be carried on the wind.

Pray without ceasing. Commune with the Creator and bare your soul. Like fog rising to the heavens, your thoughts touch the mind of God.

Immerse yourself in silence and meditate, drowning out the voices of this world.

Sense His presence.

Feel joy, the deep-down awareness of living in love.

Cast your nets upon the waters. Five fishes are miraculously multiplied.

A table is spread for all to eat – the ocean brimming with sustenance for our bodies, as well as our souls.

All will be fed.

Gaze at a single stalk of sea grass bending in the wind, the perfection of pink petals on a beach rose, the intricate patterns etched on a quahog shell, the luminescence of a sun-drenched sea as it coruscates, radiating blinding light.

Illuminated, make your life a pilgrimage.

You will never walk alone.

All creatures great and small

When I awoke this morning, I peered through the window and saw movement in the woods behind our house. As my vision cleared, I made out the outlines of two white-tailed deer.

Living in dense woods populated with hundred-foot pines, I am accustomed to coming upon these beautiful and gentle gray-brown animals, but it was a welcome surprise to observe them unannounced outside my bedroom window.

Even in winter, I dwell in a veritable zoo. Twenty wild turkeys congregate in my neighbor’s front yard. A family of geese lines up in single file and takes their time crossing the street, while an impatient driver honks to no avail.

Our bird feeder attracts a menagerie of fine-feathered friends, especially my favorite couple, the bright red Northern cardinal and his buffy-brown mate, who take turns nibbling delicately on the seeds.

We also feed many uninvited guests. A freeloading Eastern gray squirrel hangs upside down from the kennel fence just in reach of the bird seed, while our Jack Russell terrier growls beneath. The squirrel chatters and clucks as he overfills his mouth, puffing out his cheeks.

Finding the feeder empty, the brash blue jays complain.

Even with the constant companionship of these incredible creatures, I catch cabin fever in the middle of February and succumb to the seasonal malady. In deep winter, the house in the forest can feel confining after a glut of short, lackluster days with little sunshine. I start climbing the walls.

“Most of us, I thought, are caged in some way all our lives,” said Gladys Taber in “Country Chronicle.” “There are walls and bars and fences of all kinds, invisible but tangible. We spend a great deal of time climbing over obstacles – perhaps this is what life is all about. But we must all, I think, long for a brief time of real freedom outside the restrictions of our existence.”

Seeking escape, I yearn for open spaces, and I head to our summer place by the sea 40 minutes away. At the beach, the truck navigates over frozen tundra, the stretch of sand interrupted by occasional potholes brimming with icy shards.

The winter sun cannot penetrate the windshield to warm the small cabin, and when the wind whistles, it rocks the vehicle and sends shivers down my spine.

In discomfort with my arms wrapped tightly about me, I gaze at the steel gray seas that lure me away from the rigors of a New England winter and direct my thoughts to the beauty before me. I feel a calming presence as I realize there is so much greater than ourselves at work here.

“Not knowing how to feed the spirit, we try to muffle its demands in distractions,” said Anne Morrow Lindbergh in “Gift from the Sea.” “Instead of stilling the center, the axis of the wheel, we add more centrifugal activities to our lives – which tend to throw us off balance.”

The truck’s heater hums, and I slowly begin to thaw. The warm air circulates, and sitting in silence, I feel warmth radiating from within.

Seagulls stand together on the seashore, buffeting themselves against gale-force winds. The sea pulses with life, teeming beneath the waves.  

The old Anglican hymn by Cecil F. Alexander comes to mind:

“All things bright and beautiful, / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.”