Way back in 1984, when I was touring Switzerland, land of wonderful watches, I became enthralled with the idea of watches that kept moon time. For some reason, the idea of knowing the seasons of the moon seemed very important.  Of course, the watches in Geneva were hugely expensive and I just looked and lusted, and ever since then I’ve dreamed of having such a watch. Really, it makes no sense. It’s a yearning.

But then I moved to the sea.

And now I don’t need one. The tides here are like the breath of the moon, and I adore living somewhere where I can sense this easier – heck, even go and look at it, should I have a few moments to spare. It is a gift, one that emphasizes the largeness of our universe, and the smallness of our concerns. Sunday, I took my dog out for a run on a fog wrapped beach.  We couldn’t see for more than a few feet in each direction – but we could hear the tidal breath, the waves, far out. Matching my breaths with them was so soothing, so ultimately cleansing.

I’ve been feeling vaguely grumpy lately.  Part of it is the endless rain, part of it is a personal disappointment, part of it is restlessness with myself and my inability, seemingly, to get my sorry hide moving. I planned to come to Nova Scotia and fling myself into it madly in all directions.  Instead, and probably appropriately, I find myself stepping into it a bit gingerly, toes first, sensing the water, getting used to the temperature. It’s most likely a good thing – the move set my MS back a wee bit, and the pace here is slower.  I need to step on the clutch and down gear a bit. But I still hold myself to senseless deadlines, and I am still cross that my writing muse is lost somewhere in the woods of New Brunswick, wrestling with a moose or something, and hasn’t shown up yet. Instead I’m knitting, and leaving my brain in neutral. And I’m still annoyed with myself that I haven’t forced myself into an exercise regimen other than that required for dog happiness and continence.

So the beach was perfect. The air, unbreathed by others, opened my lungs.  The sounds of the waves opened my heart. The mist set me to thinking – so grey and undefined, it required my brain to step into the lurch. It all sounds so trite put this way – I feel I am gradually specializing in the use of clichés about the sea, but I’ve just gotta work through them before I can get to any essential truths – it’s like hacking through the underbrush to discover snowdrops.

Today, I’m treating myself to a sensory day.  I’m potting up some of the sad-looking plants I rescued from a local Canadian Tire.  I’m putting in some seeds for lettuce and nasturtiums. I’m knitting for a bit. And then I’m ironing my bed sheets with lavender water and planning a long hot soak in lovely smelly bath salts. I’ll warm my flannel nightie in the dryer, and retire early with a wee dram of excellent scotch and a wonderful book. And by tomorrow, I’ll be ready to wrestle the writing dragons. If they get here from New Brunswick.

Time, flowing like a river
Time, beckoning me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river
To the sea
Goodbye my love, Maybe for forever
Goodbye my love, The tide waits for me
Who knows when we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it’s gone forever
Gone forever
Gone forevermore
Goodbye my friends, Maybe forever
Goodbye my friends, The stars wait for me
Who knows where we shall meet again
If ever
But time
Keeps flowing like a river (on and on)
To the sea, to the sea
Till it’s gone forever
Gone forever
Gone forevermore

Alan Parsons Project 1980