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Tracie Skarbo was motivated to write by her father, who was her biggest supporter. “He was always behind me, rallying me on with my writing. I would always see him with a book in hand. He gave me a great appreciation for the written word, and the power and responsibility that writers have to shape those who read their words. He also taught me to respect nature and to value the beauty within it; my reflections on my environment are just an extension of this.” Skarbo was raised on Vancouver Island and is working on her next two books.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Eagle's Song

After a long stressful day when I have almost come to the limit of what I can endure, there is nothing like spending time with a mistress of mine, the ocean.  Whether I walk her skirts where the frothy frills kiss the sandy slopes or I converse with her over rocky cliffs with fishing rod in hand, she seems to quench my thirst for calm.  Rippled waves hypnotizing me with their rhythm as they lick the surf.

She sends her children to distract me from my woes and delight me with their simple way of being, no apologies made or conscious effort given trying to be anything other than what they are.  Eagles visiting with their stuttering wise whistle songs seem to tutor me in natures’ way.

Brine scented breezes tease my tendrils and caress my bare sun burnt shoulders while white triangles wink from the horizon’s edge and with this illusion I can understand why those of long ago feared toppling off the salted table’s edge. 

Puckered cumulus blush the sunset’s brink and I am further rewarded with slick black and whiskered faces gazing at me from the waves.  Perhaps they hope that if I catch anything that isn’t big enough for my table, I will throw it to their watery plates instead.

I play witness to fathers teaching young daughters the art of skipping rocks, and mothers sharing sea pool secrets with sons.  I am taken back to my early childhood memories when as a girl I had learned the same thing on these shores, my smile is born and lingers. 

I revel in watching the Blue Heron in his silent hunting meditation and I am struck by his patience and dedication, he reminds me of a grey feathered monk. 

As the sun dips into the sea to continue her pursuit of the moon, I too must make my way.  No longer am I bloated with the strife of life, but rather revitalized in its celebration.

6 comments:

  1. Beautiful words from an equally beautiful mind. What a way to live, to be, to feel .. thank you.

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  2. beautiful piece :) I remember a place in North Dakota with flat rocks. It was one of the few places I was able to find them. Those are the easiest ones to skip, sometimes they would skip half a dozen times before landing in the water.

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  3. Emma! What a pleasant surprise! Thanks so much for coming by and having a gander! Katley, I wish you lived closer, so we could have a rock skipping competition... then kayak over the sea! :)

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  4. Tracie, that would be such fun:)

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