Snow falls and the town is quiet. It is nighttime and yet the fields are covered in a white blanket, which softens the appeal of the late night hours that come after midnight. The snowy grounds warmly illuminate a dull gray, which is nice to see because this reminds me the snowfall is not a threat, but instead, a reminder to stay in and be warm.
The streets are unused at this hour, which is good, which is why I never minded the idea of living in a small town. I like the quiet now. Perhaps this matches my age. Perhaps this is a sign of maturity. Or, maybe I’ve just outgrown the noise and hustle of New York City.
On nights like this in the mountains, everyone is cuddled in their homes, safe and warm, family is with family, and the entire world around me is hushed to a soft lullaby. I like that.
There are thoughts I have of the beach at this time. Although removed and moved away, I am still connected here. To the beach, I mean. I am not connected to the seasons because my love is not a seasonal thing. No, my love is constant, moving, always breathing, much like the tides, which never cease. I am a child of this. I will always be.
I am a child of the beach. I have roots here that reach deeper than the sand, and yet, I am removed. I have moved away but can see this place so clearly that if I close my eyes, it is as though I never left. All I have to do is dream.
I have seen the beach with snow on the sands. I have seen the dunes covered in blankets of white, iced over, glistening beneath a cold winter sun, which is bright with a blue sky, and warm to the hart but not to the skin.
I love it here, at the beach, when the place is otherwise seasonally vacant and abandoned. There is nothing between me and the sea. There is no one around to hear my thoughts or my secrets. There are just me and the waves, which take away the sediments of my unwanted life and wash them away to someplace unobjectionable.
As I see it, this is the way the world breathes. The tides, in and out; this is Mother Earth’s chest rising high as she inhales and sinking low when she breathes out.
I have seen snowfall at the beach but never a blizzard. I have never seen this but I would like to. I imagine the snow and ocean connect here without regard for boundary between land and sea. Although dim, I still imagine this sight would be beautiful.
I think of those that would shake their head and wonder why. Why engage the cold elements?
I say because beauty is not a seasonal thing. I say my love cannot be only when the sun shines. I say I would go here because love means in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, in unity, until death do us part.
Meanwhile, blizzard or not, cold or warm, out there, somewhere, ships move. Fishing boats work the commercial spots. Lobster boats pull up lobster pots. The scallop boats, the draggers, the men that work the sea cannot afford the luxury of considering the weather or whether the seas will be calm or otherwise. They just simply endure and work the ocean for their bread and butter so they can feed their family.
Seasons mean nothing to them so then why should I allow the hardships to deter me? None of us should.
I am certain we are all more fortunate than we believe. I am certain there is always someone looking upon me while I am at my worst and thinking about my life with admiration or envy.
My struggles are only known to me, yet, to another, my struggle is like a luxury, which I take for granted.
I am here (like you) at an interesting crossroads. I am searching for something, which, perhaps, I have already found; —however, perhaps I was never sure the value of what I have up until now, up until you, or up until this dream I have of me walking along the beach with news to report.
See, this is not only where I go to spill my secrets or tell my thoughts. No, this is where I go to speak with my Father, The Old man. This is where I go to rid myself of my ideas that involve regret. More importantly, this is where I go to report home like a child coming back from school with a good grade on his report card.
I am a child of this, born from this, and about this, I can only explain; I am drawn here, to the sea. I am drawn to the memory I have of a place called Point Lookout.
I am the footsteps of a small boy, trying to keep up with the stride of my Father, The Old Man, and placing my steps in his tracks because someday, I want to follow in his footsteps.
I have always wanted to be more like him. To come off like him: to be able, to be capable, to be dependable, and to be the builder, the creator, the hunter/gather, the strength, the authority.
I always admired him, although, now that I am older, I am more certain of my Father. I understand more about his fears and frustrations and how they turn inward because the pressure, at times, can be insurmountable. Life has a way of being punishing, just like the rough seas against the ships that have no other choice but to endure and make their way.
This is why I appreciate nights like the ones where snow falls in the mountains. I like the quiet, moonlit nights, where the snowy grounds shimmer beneath the moonbeams. The white surface turns to a reflection of midnight blue and nothing is so dark..
No matter where I am or wherever I might go, I am who I am. I am this memory. I am his son. I am this man that I have become and you and all that I have mean the world to me.
This will always mean the world to me, so long as you’ll have me that is.
I am yours: Me, my dreams, my connection to the sea, as we well as me now, away from this in my chalet home between the mountains.
I wish you could see this vision of mine. I have always said the vision I have is like something from a Norman Rockwell painting. I don’t have much else but this dream of mine. In fact, this all that I have.
Might as well share it with you . . . my love.