Tidal Rhythm

Since my last post, another collection of days and nights have passed. Tides have risen and pulled outward. The sun and moon have crossed paths, twice. And life on this planet has continued to be chaotic, deadly and devastating — and also an epic, beautiful celebration. 

This weekend brought one of the biggest tides of the summer, marked each year in Pont-Aven by a charming festival called La Fête de la Belle Angèle. Old sailing boats and sailors come from near and far, sailing up the tiny Aven River when she is at her fullest, to celebrate with dancing, music, crêpes and cider. There are kilts and bagpipes, conversations with strangers, and lots of locked pinky-fingers. It is a line dancing community, if ever there were one. It is one of my favourite days of the year. 

The day before the festival, I took my last swim of the summer in the neighbouring river, a beautifully clear swimming hole where locals frequent for swimming as often as the birds and fish come to feed . The water had swollen more than a metre above its usual level. It was crystalline and alive with marine life. Deep beneath the surface, where the water was coldest, there was a silent movement as the sand was pulled and rearranged into a vast Sahara of curves and valleys — a tiny microcosm of secret life unfolding beneath the surface.

There are things that spending the month of August nestled between two rivers has taught me. And as my fifth year at this little blue fishing cottage comes to a close, I feel more impassioned than ever about the importance of place, and the profundity of living in a tidal rhythm.

In this place, nestled amongst tall pines where I feel most naturally myself, and where I feel most connected to the natural world, I am struck less by the newness of ideas than by the truth of the oldest ones. 

We are nature. 

And perhaps, to be well within ourselves, we need environments that allow us to live more simply — to be nourished by local food, to be connected to our bodies, to nature, and to one another; to slow down enough to participate in the fullness of life. To notice. 

For me, this brings an ease. A sense of okay-ness, even in a world containing so much suffering and pain. 

So, what are my little takeaways from this August of long walks, cold swims, family time, and the joy of seeing the world through the lens of a paintbrush? 

The headline is this:

Taking time out to enjoy life is not a luxury. It is a necessity.

Nourishment comes in many forms. For me, what is just as important as eating well is being connected to my body through movement; seeing myself rising to small, self-imposed challenges; acknowledging I am in an aging body, and affirming what is still possible for my body to enjoy.

Being in, and alongside, a river feels like one of the great privileges of being alive. 

Watching the comings and goings of birds and fish. Noticing the ever-changing riverbed, the wind patterns, the colours, smells and even tastes of the water. Paying attention to these small shifts reminds me of the continual dance between time and the elements — of the planetary strings being pulled, and of how very small I am in the vastness of the seas. 

Perhaps this is what place can offer us: a way of remembering that we are part of something much larger than ourselves. 

For me, the simple, great pleasures are these:

Biking to the river on a blue-sky, puffy-cloud day, and swimming in its cold water.

Making art in the ever-changing light of nature.

Being honest about how many kilometres I can walk comfortably.

Resting without guilt.

Eating ice cream. 

With all the woes of the world, these are a few of my favourite things.

Perhaps that is not an insignificant thing - to notice what brings us joy. To allow ourselves to be nourished by it. To participate fully in the life that is here.

To remember that, like the tides, we are not meant to move in only one direction.

There is a rhythm to life. Perhaps part of being well is learning how to move with it.