Sunlight on the Coast

Sunlight on the Coast - Winslow Homer

Longfellow penned poems under the shadow of the Portland Head Light, and Homer brushed oil across canvas beside the rocky shores of Prouts Neck.  I need offer no further proof of the inspirational spell Maine casts upon its inhabitants. 

My Sheridan hangs perilously from the monkey bars beneath the same lighthouse shadow, grinning and unaware that she is not five, but two.  My Caed charges eagerly ahead along the cliffs of the Cape, spotting a hundred times the very ocean Homer painted and never growing tired of announcing its presence.

My feet run, then jog, until ankles reject altogether the training pace along jagged rock.  And I linger lazy on the Cliff Walk, held still in the crashing beauty. The air twists my bangs, and the gulls share only the scent of their breakfast.

This may be our last summer in Maine.  Or it may be one of many. It doesn't matter which. 

Because like my four year old, I see the rocky shore a hundred times and each time my breath disappears for a moment to announce it. Like my two year old, I swing in the shadow of history and feel braver than my capabilities. And because even as I run, I'm halted to rest smack in the middle of the moment, alive and all there. 

On this landscape for me is blooming not the inspiration of painting or poetry, but of a million contented moments. Each minute mine but once, the uncertainty of tomorrow offers only further encouragement toward the deepest enjoyment of today.

So wherever we are, and for now it is Maine, we will be all there, basking in the sunlight on the coast.