TheBanyanTree: Letting Go of My Dream

[pat.martin]

            These days I sleep alone in my own bedroom.  On this winter night, I stare into the darkness while across the hall, my husband Andrew sleeps soundly.  Why wouldn't he?  At his insistence, we have sold our summerhouse, and he is pleased.  The new owners take possession on August 15th, 2004.  To me, letting go of the cottage is far more than a real estate transaction; it is the loss of a dream, and I am grieving.

            I grew up on the coast and feel a strong connection with the ocean.  For years, I set aside a large portion of my earnings in hopes of owning my own piece of waterfront.  Andrew was uncommitted, but when I decided to purchase a cabin on Savary Island (off British Columbia's west coast) with or without him, he topped up my life savings so that we had clear title to three high-bank waterfront lots, a simple two-story house, and a million-dollar, panoramic view.

            Sighing, I flip onto my side and wrap my arms around the pillow next to me.  In my mind's eye, I am standing in front of the cottage listening to the rhythmic whoosh of the waves on the sandy shore sixty feet below.  I move to a giant, first growth cedar and run my hands over its thick rough bark, then drop my forehead against it and close my eyes.  I am losing you soon.

            The noisy chatter of a gray squirrel interrupts me.  It darts up the trunk of a tall fir and disappears into the foliage.  Seconds later, a steady rain of acorns drop to the ground where two others, bushy tails twitching, scurry to collect and hide them in a nearby hollow stump.

A black-tailed doe ambles out of the brush and plucks at the parched yellow grass that covers the ground.  With flag ears pricked, her large, dark eyes study me as she chews.  Unafraid, she flicks her tail, then strolls behind the house.

I wander to the bank and sit cross-legged on last summer's project, a deck made of thick wooden planks.  The unobstructed northwest view of Desolation Sound, the Copeland Islands and the mainland is surreal, like an airbrushed painting in muted shades of blue and green.  The subtle layers of color soothe me.  In the distance, the tiny black silhouette of a pleasure boat moves toward the village of Lund, the northern terminus of Highway 101, which starts in Chile, South America.  To the west, the setting sun glances through an arbutus tree's filigree of brick red branches.

I toss and turn as I practice saying goodbye to this paradise, memorizing each sight, smell, texture and sound.  Entangled in a jumble of bedcovers, I kick free of them and flick on the light switch. I smooth the sheets and straighten the blankets.  I will recreate order; I will silence the scream inside of me.

When I turn off the lamp, my thoughts return to my island home. I hear the shrill cry of a bald-headed eagle as it soars overhead and lands on the top branches of a gnarled, wind-scarred evergreen.  The fresh salt air pricks my nostrils as I stroll down the beach trail, brushing aside the encroaching salal and huckleberry bushes.  At the trail's end, I step over a mishmash of logs onto fine white sand.  A dark line of seaweed defines the farthest reaches of the last high tide. 

A small bronze mermaid fixed to the top of a lone boulder watches as I move through the tide pools toward the ocean, stopping to examine a platter-size, orange sunfish with sixteen legs. Low tide reveals a treasure trove of sand dollars, periwinkles and limpets.  I pick up a sea onion, twirl it by its six-foot tail, and release it.  It whirrs through the air like a shot put and lands with a soggy plop. 

My gaze combs the beach as I recall a decade of family holidays on Savary Island, and my only child Michelle's excitement as we searched for moon snail shells, unique rocks, and driftwood.  Each tide brought in something new.  Every day the shore landscape changed.

When I reach the ocean, I see an eating crab scuttle through the shallow water, claws raised in a fighting stance and I smile, recalling the many times Michelle and I tried to catch one with our bare hands.  I shield my eyes as I look toward the west where the evening sun casts a honey-colored glow over everything.  A seagull swoops for a clam and climbs into the air, dropping it on the rocks below.  With a triumphant cry, it dives to earth and feeds.  Nature is in perfect harmony here on this bird-in-flight-shaped sand island.  

Transfixed, I watch as the sun slowly sinks below the violet peaks of Vancouver Island, and the sky fills with color: fuchsia, crimson, amethyst and gold.  Even in the realm of my imagination, Savary works its magic.  I am in awe of nature's perfection; I am at peace.  

Now, finally, my eyes grow heavy.  I am losing Savary but it is still mine for five more months.  In May, come warmer weather, I plan to move there until I must hand over the key. 

Mid-August, when I leave Savary, I will enter a new season.  In recent years I have said goodbye to my daughter, now grown and attending an out-of-town university.  I have, with much turmoil, given up my good-paying government job, choosing health and happiness over monetary gain.  After Savary, I will begin my new life.

When I surrender to sleep, my cheek rests on a wet pillow; my hands have tightened into fists.





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