if i should
enter the house and speak
with my own voice, at last,
about its awful furniture,
pulling apart the covering
over the dusty bodies; the randy
father, the husband holding ice
in his hand like a blessing,
the mother bleeding into herself
and the small imploding girl,
i say if i should walk into
that web, who will come flying
after me, leaping tall buildings?
— Lucille Clifton
(one of her excellent notes to Clark Kent)
I’m not going to talk about the retreat. It’s going quite well, but it’s not my subject today. Instead, there is the utter gorgeousness of being here.
(forgive me for not cleaning the window before taking my pictures!)
It’s completely lovely here. Completely. I went out walking this morning after watching the sunrise (my room mate went back to bed, which was so very tempting, but I wanted to see where we were. I was kicking myself for forgetting to pack my camera, but glad I had my phone. Pidgeon Cove is as quaint as it sounds, but also home to more than its share of ‘McMansions’ overlooking the sea. But not so many as to spoil the small-fishing-village feel. I love that many houses have plaques that announce who built the house, or — as in the case of one house — who it was built for (Daniel Webster).
Then I walked down the hill, still hoping to find a turn-off that would lead me to the sea, and found a dead factory with an amazing color:
(It also has a sign on one end that warns us to “Keep away. Flaking lead paint.” Oh, okay.) I’m kind of happy to discover that my camera phone was able to catch pretty ok pics. The poisoned factory ones are fuzzy because I was snapping photos as I walked, but I still like them.
Waves catching sun sending
too soon to think of this time ending
focus only on this sight
my body knows how right
this is — to live quiet by the sea
to live quiet, to just be