Pbeidy
My parents have a house on the east coast of the United States, right in the middle of New England. They were first invited to visit by family friends in the early-mid 80s and have been returning to it with a seasonal rhythm to rival migratory fowl. I myself can count on only a few fingers the years where I have not spent some measure of time on this particular shore. Over the past three and a half decades, it has been a central spoke around which my nomadic meandering across the globe have spun. It is a haven, where the soul may shed the annoyances and burdens of everyday life for just a short while. The house itself is a more recent addition in this saga. by which I mean to say that they bought it a mere 15 years ago. Piddling really.
The abode sits in a small inlet, immediately adjacent to a larger but still comprehensible bay, itself only a mote next to a more well known body of water. Sea water snakes its way through tall, spiky grass, past imperial blue horse fly traps, bird nests and a bridge. Further out, toward the more open water of the bay, several small boats are moored, including a tiny red skiff, built out of pure Popeye vibes and puckishly named The Colonel. My mother has always said, the presence this naval jalopy is her signal that summer has begun. The area is alive with fauna of a stunning variety for such small square meterage. Herons, cranes, hawks, seagulls, fish, crabs, clams, coyotes, skunks, deer, raccoons, rabbits and even wild turkeys. It is as if Noah’s Arc dumped its bounty here and they all decided to stay.
The kitchen and the attendant table sit look out on to this mini estuary, framing the view through a sliding door and windows that combine into a modernist peak cathedral window. Mornings, when I am chased out of bed by the rising sun and the slowly decaying grip of jet lag, I walk down the hallway towards the sun pouring into those panes. Popping a generic pod into the old Nespresso machine, I stare out onto a glorious vision as it whirs and grinds, filling the space with noise and the promise of hot stimulant. If the tide and the weather are just right, I am treated to a vision unparalleled in the world. The colors descend from a gray to purple and then a deep, warming orange. At the bottom, there is a sliver of ephemeral pale yellow. The grass, starts black, but slowly unfurls to a vibrant green. All of it reflected on a surface to placid and reflective it puts polished silver to shame.
It is my own, personal vision of paradise.
Mostly I sit there and allow the beauty to wash over me, feeling how slowly, the accumulated stresses and irritants of the world seep out of my legs and feet into the floor to the sound of morning bird calls. This year, with a socially significant birthday rapidly approaching, I have found my mind wandering to about who else might have seen this sight. Before the rapacious hand of modernity carved the landscape to allow for manicured lawns and shingled summer homes. I imagine a man similar in age to me, his hair long and jet black, his skin a deep nut brown, further tanned and roughened from fishing in the sun his entire life. I wonder if he too had children and a wife. If he engaged in the politics of his tribe, settling disputes about fishing and hunting territories or was happy to just live inside the cycles of seasons and harvests. I do not have much in common with this man, who lived here in the centuries before doom came calling on wooden hulls. But I feel a kinship with him none the less. How could I not, when we look over the same landscape, and surely shared a similar feelings of wonder and gratitude to live alongside such splendor.