Grace

Dear Savanna,

Yesterday, towards the late afternoon I was sitting on the jetty. The seat was made of weathered wood with white paint cracked; flaking from exposure to the brittle summer sun. Later I discovered the carved initials of adolescent love.

Perhaps a moment for introspection? Casting back to the innocent yearnings of my youth. Though my affections were observed from afar.

Sitting there looking back across the water to the township of Victor Harbor, I experienced a sense of disquiet and pondered. My disquiet was not from the cold wind buffeting my ears in a gusting rhythm, or stinging and watering my eyes.

It was because of the sublime beauty of the moment.

It hurt.

My soul ached with gratitude. For so long such emotion missing. Stuck in a tortured rut.

The sun would soon set and the purple clouds, earlier angry and lashing with lightening, thunder and drenching squalls had changed. The clouds had changed to golden rimmed with heavy pink bellies.

A seagull flew by with wings straining against the wind’s force as it declared; the evening had begun!

Now deserted, the lights of the jetty glowed yellow.

Walking back with the Clydesdale’s horse-drawn tram mat to myself, I side stepped the odd clump of rain soaked manure. It lightened my step on the tram track to and from Granite Island.

Tourists lined up on weekends to visit this strange sparse land mass of orange, lichen tinged, granite boulders.

The surface ensured less effort to walk, compared to the bitumen smeared over the wooden jetty sleepers. The covering was eroded, fissured and undulating. At some places the cracks had grown to gashes revealing the sea below, surging and swirling against the pylons.

Norfolk pines lined the foreshore.

Stopping, I looked left to the Bluff. A walk for tomorrow? Then looking right, remembering a previous occasion visiting Port Elliot. A walk for Saturday? Perhaps.

And Sunday? Maybe rest.

The pines stood like sentinels along the Esplanade. On approach, the trees outer branches were swaying in the wind proclaiming the end of the sea; the end of the sand.

The trees were planted to honour men from the district. Long ago dead from World War I. The bark was twisted and curling, with sap still bleeding from removed lower branches. I paused, mindful with great esteem, at the monument to the fallen.

Returning to the Anchorage Hotel, consumed by the wonderment as the sea continued its’ relentless work at the shore. I returned to my room. Lodgings from a gentler era. Leaning back into the wicker chair, now covered by a dry blanket. My senses heightened, I heard the waves lapping on the sand.

After a brief shower in the ancient shared facilities it was time to venture out. It was clear no one remained on the foreshore. Perhaps not surprising in a South Australian winter.

The sunset stopped me in my tracks.

In stark contrast to the sunset’s colour interplay, the sea was a steely grey. The surface rippling with turbulent squalls.

On Ocean Street, I hunched with my jacket coat tight in an attempt at protection from the biting Winter wind. And went from the Anchorage to the ATM. It was 5.30 pm.

A stroll to investigate. Peering through the windows of the fish and chip shops, and delicatessens. The shop keepers reading newspapers or books, preparing for a long night with few customers.

One fish and chip shop was run by an old Scottish couple and they sat outside at a shabby table, arguing and smoking.

In contrast the Pizza shop had mothers with their children seated by the windows; a bedlam of munching and flailing arms.

Inside the light was bright and the noise as expected when ordering my meal.

The woman acknowledged this with a sigh and a sneer, projecting that the dreary evening trade had begun. She had been working there for years and could no longer hide her scorn. Jabbing the cash register with her finger. Pink polished chipped away and worn. Forefinger thick and yellowed. Age, work and tobacco.

Outside, the table rocked and wobbled as I hungrily ate my favourite dish. With the final sip of my drink, the sunset faded to black.

My hunger sated, I left, hunched with my jacket coat tight in an attempt at protection from the biting Winter wind. A brew was due in front of the small bar heater back in my room.

As I reflect, the words of Tara Brach come to mind.

The author of ‘Radical Acceptance’ and ‘True Refuge.’

Savanna do you remember when I purchased the audiobook? Yes or no? No matter.

I’m listening again!

Tara Brach’s comforting voice provides me with gentle guidance and meditations.

I often play this chapter from ‘True Refuge.’ It begins with these words:

’The gateway to truth, taking refuge in the present is a powerful way to come home to our heart and wisdom.‘

She then reads an excerpt from a poem by Dorothy Hunt: ‘Peace is This Moment Without Judgment.’

‘Peace is this moment without judgment.

That is all. This moment in the heart-space

where everything that is ... is welcome.

Peace is this moment without thinking

that it should be some other way,

that you should feel some other thing,

that your life should unfold according to your plans.

Peace is this moment without judgment,

this moment in the heart-space where

everything that is ... is welcome.’

During my second psychology appointment with you, I sat with no concept of my current stupor.

I felt safe and started to cry. A not so simple plea. Desperate. “Please help me.”

You turned my attention to the concept of Grace and the sacred. Of longing for sacred spaces. Of sacred places.

I replied, “Bookshops, coffee shops and movie theatres with Wurlitzer organs, rising from below the front-of-stage for pre-movie performances.”

Midway through - a task set.

“I want you to book a weekend away, just for you. Think of it as respite from your wife and young family. Consider carefully about where you’ll go. Somewhere new? Or an established sacred place for you.”

I was quick to respond, “I know where I’ll go.”

The middle of Winter would support a contemplative experience.

So Savanna, what do you think of my progress?

For me? With heartfelt thanks for your guidance.

I’m here …

Tomorrow I hope for a spectacular sunrise.

And in a few days a letter to post with inclusions. A selection of milestone photos. My token of appreciation for your dedication. Helping me reclaim what once was mine.

My mind …

Sincerely,

Joseph

Pauline Fountain. © 2023. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced without the written permission of the author.

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Details about the audio book referred to and quoted within. (Audio book was originally published in print format and is still available. )

Brach, T. True Refuge: Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Heart [Speech audio recording: Unabridged.] Tara Brach: Meditation, Emotional Healing, and Spiritual Awakening. https://www.tarabrach.com