The Journey Inward

I saw her through the window with her short grey hair,
A surprise, as I didn't know anyone lived there.
Our eyes met and I could see she was standing at her sink,
Her hands at work with something.
She mouthed and gestured that this was private property,
We mouthed our apologies in response and turned to leave.
But then she took a few steps left to the open doorway,
And I took in her sensible clothes now, too,
Layered under a bulky sweater on this windy July day.

We explained that we'd seen a sign that the lighthouse was for sale,
That we were hoping to look around,
But she pointed to the adjacent flats and said only they were.
Then kindly, maybe because of our American accents,
Or maybe recognizing our effort down the long, bumpy, narrow road,
She said we could walk out to the cliff behind the lighthouse.
Jeff had been hoping to go up inside, I knew,
But both of us heard this offer and were grateful.

We opened the gate beside the house,
And followed the worn path behind.
The wind whipped my hair, lashing my face fiercely,
And my clothes billowed about me.
I immediately understood the woman's practicality-
Of hairstyle and dress.

The cliff was precarious, not guarded by rails or fencing,
And it felt both dangerous and exhilarating to walk its ridge,
Even as I felt my fear of heights and oceans nagging at me.
The view took my breath away, so beautiful and awe-inspiring,
But also raw, bleak, and severe.

On one side, the black water of the North Sea thundered,
Colliding violently with the rocky land,
While on the other, white capped waves lapped
At the thin stretch of sandy beach.
Gulls shrieked and screeched,
Their raucous, haunting calls.

I turned and looked back at the lighthouse,
Feeling a visceral reaction to this place.
"You are home," a voice seemed to whisper,
And that notion didn't seem a bit strange.

This felt like home, indescribably home,
In this foreign country,
On this punishing shoreline,
That spoke of freedom, rebellion,
Boldness, strength and privacy.

And I could see myself there, crystalline,
In that home at the base of the lighthouse,
That one not for sale.
I could see my garden in the back on a quaint, flat plot,
The picnic table on the small patio we would lay ourselves,
The rocking chairs up on the balcony beneath the light.

I pictured the panoramic cliff walks I would take,
During the expansively daylit-filled warmer months.
I imagined the wildflowers I would pick,
Bringing home to arrange in pottery vases.
The explorer in me dreamed of the paths I would discover,
Leading down and down to barefoot beach walks.

I pictured a fire, blanket and comfortable chair,
During the limited daylight-filled colder months.
I imagined reading endless books there,
And writing poems, stories and reflections at a small desk.
The recluse in me dreamed of cozying up in bed at night,
To the sound of the howling wind.

I envisioned a weekly trip into town,
Picking up groceries and goods,
Stopping at the library, visiting with friends.

My own grey head would bend over that same farmhouse sink,
Before the window overlooking our first encounter,
As I prepared a simple meal for Jeff and myself.

My life flashed before my eyes,
Not the one I'd lived,
But rather the one that stretched ahead of me,
Alive with possibility.

Would anyone visit me here?  Would anyone come?
Would they rather a community pool and gym,
Running paths and kayakable lagoons,
Over this quiet, yet vibrant and virile place?
Would they see what I saw and understand?

That this lighthouse on a cliff,
High above the North Sea,
On the coast of Scotland,
Was calling to me,
Inviting me home.

Photo:  Montrose, Scotland.  7.1.24 by LA