4: September 2002 Archives
When I am old, I will live in a lighthouse by the sea, with a lantern room that looks out upon three hundred and sixty degrees of earth. It will be cold and damp and hard to heat, and I will walk up and down the thin metal steps with a blanket around my shoulders.
In the chill of autumn and winter, the fog will cover the earth like a thick, suffocating blanket, but from my lookout, I will see out over the low-laying clouds. The birds will fly above the fog as they migrate to warmer places, and I will watch them as they pass, camera in hand.
Downstairs, my little lighthouse will be kept warm and cozy by a fire stove, and the homey living area will be surrounded by built-in shelves full of books -- fine literature, science, art, photography. The dark walls will be full of art, pictures of inconspicuous beauty magnified, and I will rotate the pictures frequently so that I can never become bored with them.
There will be a cat on each couch, large, fluffy, and content, and a rug on the floor to keep me warm.
In the spring and summer, the fog will lift, and on the ground below me, I'll see the rocky beaches and the birds fishing for their supper. The trees inland will be vibrant and green, gnarled and bent by the coastal breeze like my aged hands. At the bottom of my lighthouse, I will cultivate a garden, full of vegetables and flowers, and surrounded by a white picket fence.
A small, dusty path will lead into the trees where few ever venture, lush and full of life, with a trickling stream traveling through it and toward the ocean. Wild berries will grow there, touched by nothing but the birds who feast upon them, breaking the silence with their songs.
It will be but a short walk down the road to the small village that I call home. The local pub is there, warm and inviting all year round. It will be full of locals, all familiar to one another in this tiny place, but occasionally, a stray tourist will stop in, looking for a drink, and find kindred spirits and decide to stay.
The younger tourists will bring new blood into the village and raise their families there, behind small picket fences, away from the dangers and cares of the city. The erstwhile visitors will be educated and proactive, and they will cherish the serenity of the place as I did when I first arrived there.
And I will walk along the shore in my bare feet, taking nothing but pictures and leaving nothing but footprints.
It's been a languid kind of weekend. Think cloudy skies and pomegranates.
There's been a great deal of talk in some of my weblogging circles about weblog linking and friendship. It's a different dynamic from some face-to-face friendships, to be sure.
