I am up at 3 am suddenly and stumble into this post. The poems are beautiful as is the turtle.
For 15 years, before they both passed away, my parents lived on the beach at Boca Grande, an island off the western coast of Florida.
The Gulf of Mexico is a beautiful sea, soft and welcoming, mostly gentle except for the occasional hurricane.
Sea turtles use the long white sand beaches as the place they are born and return to to lay their eggs.
There are no bright lights allowed at night and it is lights out entirley at moonrise so that the turtles when they hatch do not get confused and head inland to a dry grassy and confusing walk that ends in exhaustion and death.
It is with the natural moon light glimmering off the sea that they make their way to the gulf.
In the early dawn one morning I went down to the the waters’ edge and there they were, dozens of them still trying to make their way. Many more had already mage it. I could see their tracks.
It was very difficult to not help them. But one is not supposed to, for the hard long walk to the waters’ edge is paramount for forging the memory that allows for their return~a hard path for life’s continuance.
The return to the sea is arduous and long. And the helping hand is in fact the one that leaves us to it, to struggle and toil so that the return and the final acceptance into the waters is etched into the soul, such is the making of sea turtles and so too perhaps those of us placed by fate at such a distance for so long. All my life I have struggled to return to England and its green rolling hills. Placed as I was in a desert 4000 miles away to do my first half of life’s work… and now I live somewhere close that I approach my destination. I live just beyond daily reach but close enough to smell the salt water and hear the sound of the waves…so close is Portugal to England compared to Arizona. But still out of reach.
Fierce landscapes forge the soul, and are always personal. A long sea turtle journey home is like making pilgrimage
a way of life, always challenging, always the false light calling the wrong way, always the false hand I would wish to carry me easily to water’s edge.
It was only ever looking up to Orion’s Belt in the sky that gave me my bearings and hope, so to keep the soul’s course until the waves finally reach out and take hold of me themselves, and carry me out to sea.
I am doing my annual itinerant teaching pilgrimage in mid September and finishing at UKTC. Maybe see you somewhere in there. If you two fancy a visit in Oxford let me know a day that might work. Otherwise see you at UKTC I hope. Blessings
You are a wonderful writer, and I found your comment here deeply moving. I can relate to the soul’s deep call to reunite with the landscapes of England. Caitlin’s writings help to keep the fire kindled within.
As a fellow southerner, these words resonated deep inside me - I was born east of Bosham at Rustington and lived in Chichester for ten years - beautiful elegiac haunting songs of place thank you
I am up at 3 am suddenly and stumble into this post. The poems are beautiful as is the turtle.
For 15 years, before they both passed away, my parents lived on the beach at Boca Grande, an island off the western coast of Florida.
The Gulf of Mexico is a beautiful sea, soft and welcoming, mostly gentle except for the occasional hurricane.
Sea turtles use the long white sand beaches as the place they are born and return to to lay their eggs.
There are no bright lights allowed at night and it is lights out entirley at moonrise so that the turtles when they hatch do not get confused and head inland to a dry grassy and confusing walk that ends in exhaustion and death.
It is with the natural moon light glimmering off the sea that they make their way to the gulf.
In the early dawn one morning I went down to the the waters’ edge and there they were, dozens of them still trying to make their way. Many more had already mage it. I could see their tracks.
It was very difficult to not help them. But one is not supposed to, for the hard long walk to the waters’ edge is paramount for forging the memory that allows for their return~a hard path for life’s continuance.
The return to the sea is arduous and long. And the helping hand is in fact the one that leaves us to it, to struggle and toil so that the return and the final acceptance into the waters is etched into the soul, such is the making of sea turtles and so too perhaps those of us placed by fate at such a distance for so long. All my life I have struggled to return to England and its green rolling hills. Placed as I was in a desert 4000 miles away to do my first half of life’s work… and now I live somewhere close that I approach my destination. I live just beyond daily reach but close enough to smell the salt water and hear the sound of the waves…so close is Portugal to England compared to Arizona. But still out of reach.
Fierce landscapes forge the soul, and are always personal. A long sea turtle journey home is like making pilgrimage
a way of life, always challenging, always the false light calling the wrong way, always the false hand I would wish to carry me easily to water’s edge.
It was only ever looking up to Orion’s Belt in the sky that gave me my bearings and hope, so to keep the soul’s course until the waves finally reach out and take hold of me themselves, and carry me out to sea.
3:40 am: Porto, Portugal
Finding our place is always dependent upon the call sign that beacons us home! Maybe see you this year in the middle of the hectic schedule
Indeed, the call home.
I am doing my annual itinerant teaching pilgrimage in mid September and finishing at UKTC. Maybe see you somewhere in there. If you two fancy a visit in Oxford let me know a day that might work. Otherwise see you at UKTC I hope. Blessings
You are a wonderful writer, and I found your comment here deeply moving. I can relate to the soul’s deep call to reunite with the landscapes of England. Caitlin’s writings help to keep the fire kindled within.
Thank you, Erin.
As a fellow southerner, these words resonated deep inside me - I was born east of Bosham at Rustington and lived in Chichester for ten years - beautiful elegiac haunting songs of place thank you
Thank you, Mick. It was good to go to the landscape of my birth!
Beautiful place - pub, cafe and church. Stunning!
A place of rest and peace!
Thank you Caitlin, especially for that first poem.
I will cherish your sharing, dearest Caitlin, as I go into my Spring retreat. Blessings and Love, Kathryn
Lovely poetry, thank you, Caitlín.