The beach before me is an avenue of broken chunks of ice along the shores of the Beaufort, crystal boulders and small hills sparkling in the brilliant Arctic sunlight. The beach is torn with the surf, too rough for a loaded Kayaq.
But the channel running behind the beach is calm, and had an opening allowing me it's access. I beached behind the roaring wall of water, behind the glistening pebble expanse that reached shining as far as I could see under a partially clouded sky. The sun's rays reach out through the apertures as fingers of light radiating through the wet, frozen sculptures before me, wrought by the fluid fingers of an invisible God made real in the gleaming artwork...
Her bow is still extended in hope, rising up before me, pleading for release from the confinement of her birth. To reach her potential, to stretch her graceful length across the waters of our Arctic home...
Home, it has always been, hard but honest, uncompromising in it's integrity, demanding the best from me. I realize that now.
A sea and tundra wind that speaks a silent language to the heart, without the shroud of civilization's confusing noise.
Is my reality there something of enough worth, that anyone else could want to even begin to understand the emptiness I feel now without it?
Maybe,
but then...
Why...?-WKD
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