"Sharp Beach Ocean Walk" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
These late September days are edged in gold, the deciduous trees quietly shifting into their autumn splendor. Yet this morning, as I sip from my mug of coffee and gaze out the window, my mind drifts far from the forest and rivers of the Northwoods. It drifts back to Sharp Beach, to a place that once was only a few blocks from home.
Ocean walks were my meditation. A rough day? Go for a walk by the sea. A splendid dawn? Greet it with a walk. Restless in the house? Let the surf call me out. Exercise, rain, wind, or calm—the answer was always the same: go for an ocean walk. Some days I walked until my thoughts smoothed out like the tide-washed sand. Some days I walked simply for the joy of the gulls’ chatter, the salt air, the sweep of waves meeting shore. Rainy days were the most treasured of all—the soft patter on my jacket, the empty pier, the sense that the ocean and I held a secret together.
This morning, though 2,000 miles away, I walk again. In my mind I begin at the pier, the railings cold and damp beneath my hand. I set off toward Mori Point, the rhythm of my stride syncing with the rise and fall of surf. I hear the greetings of fellow walkers, just as rain-brightened and stubbornly joyful as I. I breathe in the calm, and with each breath, release the heaviness of troubling times.
Emily Dickinson once wrote of hope as “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” On this walk, I feel it. Hope is not wishful thinking—it is a presence, a companion, a flame that glows even when storms crowd the horizon. It is the whisper that tomorrow will shine brighter, and the quiet courage that steadies me today.
And so I walk—within memory, within imagination, and within spirit. And as I return, I open my eyes to the here and now. My coffee is still warm. Outside, the maple by the window blazes with orange and gold. The day is beginning, and I feel lighter, steadier, guided.
And now, perhaps, just one more cup of coffee before stepping fully into the day.
“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” — Desmond Tutu
~Wylddane
Ocean walks were my meditation. A rough day? Go for a walk by the sea. A splendid dawn? Greet it with a walk. Restless in the house? Let the surf call me out. Exercise, rain, wind, or calm—the answer was always the same: go for an ocean walk. Some days I walked until my thoughts smoothed out like the tide-washed sand. Some days I walked simply for the joy of the gulls’ chatter, the salt air, the sweep of waves meeting shore. Rainy days were the most treasured of all—the soft patter on my jacket, the empty pier, the sense that the ocean and I held a secret together.
This morning, though 2,000 miles away, I walk again. In my mind I begin at the pier, the railings cold and damp beneath my hand. I set off toward Mori Point, the rhythm of my stride syncing with the rise and fall of surf. I hear the greetings of fellow walkers, just as rain-brightened and stubbornly joyful as I. I breathe in the calm, and with each breath, release the heaviness of troubling times.
Emily Dickinson once wrote of hope as “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” On this walk, I feel it. Hope is not wishful thinking—it is a presence, a companion, a flame that glows even when storms crowd the horizon. It is the whisper that tomorrow will shine brighter, and the quiet courage that steadies me today.
And so I walk—within memory, within imagination, and within spirit. And as I return, I open my eyes to the here and now. My coffee is still warm. Outside, the maple by the window blazes with orange and gold. The day is beginning, and I feel lighter, steadier, guided.
And now, perhaps, just one more cup of coffee before stepping fully into the day.
“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” — Desmond Tutu
~Wylddane
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