April 6, 2010 (Later)
In my closing hours of writing and organizing for the next phase of my journey, I realize I could spend a lifetime here and that my camera would never capture all the living spirits of land, sea, and sky that abound. What inspires me is the expansiveness the Island offers: the vast ocean and sky and the Great Sun as it rises and sets. The boundlessness of these wonders creates a ‘right-size’ to everything else, including this writer. One cannot help but feel humility at the oneness of this Universe, its mysteries, and its grace.
As a photographer, I rarely photograph what is obvious to my eye but, rather, imagine the life force within and the aura around the subject, inanimate or not, for energy flows through everything in the Universe.
Late this afternoon, I took another walk and it first brought me to an old, gray weather-battered gate leading to a narrow, sandy path to the beach. I passed it so many times yet never saw, or chose to ignore, its sadness. On this final visit, I not only felt its melancholy but also sensed the many stories it holds of people, animals, and birds that have touched it, climbed it, perched on it as well as the rain, winds, and salt air that assaulted it for its many years. And yet all of us, most likely, walk past it ignoring its presence. However, it still stands in its forlorn state, with all its stories untold.
Bare limbs, blades of grass, stalks, tree trunks — things that would ordinarily be overlooked are uniquely beautiful to me in the ‘patterned language’ they offer. I photographed many images of reeds and brush on the beach during my time here. However, this one is a personal favorite because the view holds mystery through the eyes of these dry, yet architecturally elegant, reeds and their other side: the beginning of the sun’s descent over the ocean.
“The Tractor was used to create the Island’s first sandy pathways in the early 1900s. Grant’s grandfather …”On my way back home, I stopped on the Airport Road. Yes, there is an airstrip on this Island for those who have private planes. It is a small, grassy runway where entry begins on the harbor side and ends, well, in the Gulf. Along this road is The Tractor. Like the weathered gate leading to the ocean, it too is worn and old. It is rust covered with a plow attached at its under carriage and remains on the Island as a memorial for its story is known.