I feel the winds of change.
A windy April Ocracoke morning.
Good Friday.
And while much of my reading throughout the week has been of the spiritual variety, I have not followed the Holy Week rituals of my youth.
Until this moment.
For one reason or another,
GF was my father's day to spring clean the garage. I suppose, because it was, well, Spring, and that he had a day at home, was an avid gardener and couldn't wait to work outdoors and put spade to earth. All of those reasons. But when we were growing up, GF was a day of work and sacrifice, (to say nothing of fast and abstinence), and therefore a day of recruitment for my siblings and me.
I take a leaf from my father's book and, (putting on yesterday's clothes), begin a cabin-clean-up on a massive scale.
I have been here for nearly a month. I have completely taken advantage of the fact that, (in spite of following a regimen of my own making), really, I can do whatever I like, whenever I like. There are books and art materials (and art) strewn everywhere. Not wanting the strictures of over-organization, or to spend my time here cleaning and tidying ad nauseam, I have laid out my reference materials, papers, pencils, paints, magazines, thus allowing myself the freedom to act and react spontaneously.
In other words, this place is a sty.
Chester, (seeing the broom), senses that he isn't going to like this (at all) and heads for the deck. It is quite windy, even on the sheltered side of the cottage, but he manages to find a still corner of sun, and curls into a ball.
I spend the morning reorganizing, sweeping, tidying, washing dishes, doing laundry. There is a wee room I barely use, a sort of small child's bedroom, where I have been laying out my daily 'Weather Diary' drawings, and it is in here that I organize the clutter of books, magazines, art materials (at least the ones I'm not using), and sort through the mounds of clothes clothes clothes.
This work takes me (well) past lunchtime. I decide (on a whim) to change tack and attend the afternoon GF service. Once showered and changed, I realize that I have cut it very close (time-wise), and hop in the car to drive round (instead of hiking it through the schoolyard) to the Ocracoke United Methodist Church. As I approach, though, I see no one. (Am I that late?) Not only no one, but no where, to park that is.
Lots and lots of cars and not a soul in sight.
Hmm.
Oh sure, I could slip in the door and sit at the back, but, well,
I am chickening out.
Perhaps this could be (instead) my time of Spontaneous Spiritual Solitude.
I spin back to the cottage and pick up the (very happy and excited) dog. We drive on out of town, letting the wind take us where it will. I am quite happy to be without plan. (It feels a bit like skipping school.) If nothing else, we could drive all the way up the island to the north ferry docks, and back down again. It just doesn't matter.
I am deep in my own thoughts.
Halfway up the island, we approach the area known as the Pony Pasture.
This being the large penned area on the Pamlico Sound side of the island, where the (once) wild ponies are now contained, cared for, fed and watered. These two dozen or so 'Banker' ponies (as in 'Outer Banks'), are domesticated, but their ancestors ran free on the dunes and beaches, and in the woods and marshlands of Ocracoke Island.
They are beautiful.
And quite shy. They don't seem to be the sort to amble over in interest, (to see what people are staring at), and have their noses stroked. They are usually way way off, their brown and white coats just visible.
But as I slow to glimpse across the paddock, to my surprise there are two ponies right at the fence, nosing about in the grassy sand.
I park a little distance away and, not wanting to startle them, watch from there.
Chester and I sit quietly for some time. They are a beautiful sight. No need for our interference.
We slip out of the car, and away in the other direction, across the road to head out on the long boardwalk toward the dunes and the sea. Not having been to the 'Pony Pasture' boardwalk before, Chester is all about the new smells of this foreign land.
There is no one here.
We are completely alone on this vast stretch of sand.
The sea, churned up in the strong westerly, rolls shoreward, then is blown back out by the insistent wind.
I feel the winds of change.
We keep to the dunes, and so, are slightly protected. My thoughts, on the solemnity of the day, the beauty of the once-wild ponies, the vast and empty beach, the wild seas.
And the joy of the instinctive impulse which brought me here, not planned or caused or suggested or incited, but the spontaneity leading me to this particular place at this particular time.
Back home, and as night falls, I draw, and think of how this day unfolded.
Then, lighting a candle, cup of tea in hand, I curl up to listen to John Tavener's "Svyati - O Holy One",
a plaintive dialogue between choir and cello - slow, brooding, mesmerizing.
And in this way, Friday ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment