Gray days

The gray days are back, and a stiff wind has been blowing out of the north; we have only these low low tides to remind us that spring is really on its way.

It's odd, I suppose: I really love the island life; love living at sea level and walking the beach, love photographing the boats -- especially sailboats, kayaks, dinghies and canoes.

And yet I'm not really cut out for this existence: I'm allergic to shellfish and most fish, so I don't take advantage of all the food that lies out there for the eating. I'm not really a boater, either -- though I was married in a canoe. My back is too stiff for kayaking, I haven't rowed or canoed in years, and if there's enough wind to fill the sails there's too much chop and wave for me to ever feel really comfortable in a sailboat.

All of which makes me more of a spectator in this life, admiring nature's bounty and beauty, but all from the safe distance of my cosy living room, or standing on the shoreline; occasionally stepping through the muck to look for shells and bits of glass. I see this pattern in other ways -- a reluctance to engage -- and wonder sometimes how much of my life is being spent dabbling my toes around the edges.

But perhaps it's a factor of age: certainly it's true that now I understand there are only so many hours in a day; that there's only so much energy I have to spend. So I pour what time and energy I have into family and friends, writing and photography, the daily chores of walking dog, feeding cats, and doing household chores, carefully carving out meditation time and hoarding what's left for classes, travel, the occasional acting role, the occasional photography show...

Maybe it's okay that I don't sail: maybe I AM a sailboat, carefully tethered to my dock most days but free to go where the wind takes me should it arise. And perhaps I only question my choices on days like this when my skies are gray, my tide is low and sailing looks like something only other people do.