I love the fact that from where I sit right now, warm, snug and dry on a dreary, wet, Maine April Sunday, I can lean forward and see the mouth of our harbor which is crowned by The Perfect Small Island, which has The Perfect Lighthouse on its southern point.
There is SO much here, surrounding me in this village, along this side of the bay, in fact, along this whole coast, that makes this place, my querencia, as profoundly special as it is. I not infrequently pause, at the most random times and places, to quietly acknowledge to myself that we are seriously spoiled here.
Spoiled? Maybe. Blessed? Definitely.
In any event, The Island is a gem in every way and I cannot get enough of it. I can row to it in twenty minutes, yet it sits just far enough out from the head of the harbor where I sit this minute, to tantalize, to tease, to be a constant draw and siren.
No matter the season, it’s there, reminding me that I’m ashore and that just beyond it is the gateway to all the saltwater of this world. A glimpse of it always makes me want to just go.
In any event, we’re just coming out of winter and on this rainy day I turn to this golden image as the promise of warmth and fecundity to come.
On the day in 2005 when I made this photograph, I was over on the high western shore of the harbor just after dawn. It was deathly/wonderfully quiet, then I heard the muted drone of a boat coming out of the inner harbor.
I simply waited a few minutes, and that was that. Here’s the first boat out, at the beginning of another day hauling.
But more than that, it was the beginning of the day in which two good friends were to marry. It was the beginning of their marital passage through life. It all felt very special and this image became, of course, their belated wedding present.
And the bride is now a mother, and she helps me with design work, and her beautiful little daughter plays on the floor of my studio office and I love it all and it all seems just perfect.
Because it is.
Again (and again), I count my blessings.