Folk Fiddle-Dee-Dees At Last!

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then how much is a video clip worth? 

Suffice to say that on a day when the young woman felt simultaneously rested, refreshed, alone and sad, with that little hint of an insatiable emptiness deep in the hollow of her gut, she sought out some live music with a friend. And after already a few disappointments as far as music went until this point, she was pleasantly surprised, at long last, to have found the folk fiddle music she had been craving. Her favourite was definitely the local Newfoundlander 'kids' (or at least she thought they looked so young... and so multitalented for so young!) who called themselves The Freels, though the Donahues from Northern Ireland were pretty good too. 'Couldn't really put the whole experience well into words, so she attempted her first video clip montage. It didn't quite capture the energy in the pub, the stories of the Irish and Newfoundlander musicians who sang the songs of their grandfathers, the back-stories of songs about ships that sank on their way from Ireland to Newfoundland, or the farmer who murdered his landlord in Ireland and then ran away to America. But still, at least she could share the music of the 3 of the 4 groups of musicians she had the pleasure to hear in those blessed two hours at the Ship Pub (formerly the Ship Inn).

Breathtaking Newfoundland!

The young woman thought that today perhaps she ought to share some of the hidden beauties of her new abode. First, the majesty of the brilliant ocean on a warm, sunny, windy day, with the coastline along the base of Signal Hill.

Last weekend she had ventured to Ferryland, on the Rock's Southshore. It was nearly forlorn when she had hiked up the little trail to the lighthouse with one of her new friends from work. They had stopped to gaze at the rocky islets in the midst of the ocean on one side, giant windmills turning on the other, above coniferous forest that stretched on, untouched, unscathed all around and below.

Home on the Quidi Vidi Lake Trail

The young woman -that same one, so melancholy and lonely just a few days ago -early one evening, pulled up into the grocery store parking lot. Hopping out and locking up the car with a beep, she made her way to the pebbly gravel trail that snaked around the lake. The summer sun shone bright yet, blessing the Earth's garden here with it's golden rays. Ducks swam and scratched, ruffling their feathers, quacking and honking, ducklings swimming along behind them close to shore. A dark ponytail swooshed by and then a blond one. A couple walked by hand-in-hand. A youthful man jogged slowly by, another at least thirty years his senior sprinted past. Everyone went at their own pace here.

A cool breeze blowed through the young woman's dark locks, strands of her curls flew into her face and flirtatiously played at her shawl, sliding it off her shoulders. She chose to wear it as an open scarf instead, smiling to herself and pulling down her shades. Today her earphones whispered the light gentle airs of her college years, music she had ripped off the dorm network -Paul Simon, The Dispatch, 80s Madonna, Ben Folds, Guster, Journey. It was that kind of balmy eve.

A gazebo approached on her left, snuggled in the grassy hill. The water rippled and shimmered to her right. And then the exercise park was before her. A couple of women lifted bars with plump arms and laughing faces, a lone boy lay hanging off a low bench by one hand. Just behind, the swings beckoned, old, but solid, big kid swings along side the baby basket ones. The wind tickled her neck again, the scarf blew up like a blue flame about her arms. She sat in the black curve and pushed off into the freedom of that bright, nearly cloudless sky above, letting the air caress her face, her arms, her legs and collar bones. One father pushed his little daughter in the neighbouring basket, another his toddler son, adjacent. The former squealed with delight as the other cried out, fearing the fall. There is no fall though, only flight, she thought to herself, now dragging one foot in the rocks and then walking slowly back towards the trail.

Long, lush green and purple grasses blew like rivers to kiss the lake, The underside of little leaves shooting up on the tops of the trees, like silver-white flowers of a different place and time. The trail hid shyly now amidst weeds, rocks, trees and more of the grasses. Buttercups scattered themselves between bushes of big pink flowers and little red ones, a cluster of violet lupins off to one side, park benches, docks, picnic tables and artist's nooks in the perfect places. Wish I had that body, the young woman thought as a slim figure ran towards her in a bright turquoise sports top. The wrinkled smile under the blonde bob surprised her as the timeless woman ran past. Something out of a picture book for sure. The air had grown sweetly fragrant, melting away those insecurities and she inhaled deeply -it was intoxicating. Then the sharper whiff of a lone pine amongst the leafy shrubs and trees. She passed circularly about a brooke that really did bubble into the lake. Bliss was poetic too, she thought, but the cliches are way more obvious. She wished she knew what azaleas were in that moment, just so she could say that she then spotted a cluster of those, but she didn't know the name of those flowers. Neither did she know what birds chirped by as they sailed up into the tree overhead, maybe swallows? Did they even have swallows out here? A tree bough leaned gracefully over the lake with a sort of honouring tenderness. The young woman felt so blessed and alive. What a beautiful place this was, what peace it brought... home indeed.

Walking leisurely behind the regatta boathouse and then back onto the last bit of trail, all she asked was that she could remember as much of this enchanting beauty as possible. Perhaps this place would make her a real writer yet.

From the Old City Fountain to the Harbour on the Ocean...

A young woman picked up her long powder blue skirts, pale pink flowers swishing in the cool breeze of dusk. Down her new hilly street and right in the heart of town. A town once utterly foreign, now slightly familiar within the few blocks radius of her new home. A gentle loneliness snuggled close to her heart as she slipped on the ear buds. She had made it a point not to wear earphones until today -stay open to the novelty, the opportunity for happy coincidence, surprise meetings and the forging of friendships. No more formality now, no more niceties. Enough trying to make this place home. Home was lost somewhere inside of her... it was not outside.

She took a long breath, walking past a group of protestors down to the waterfront. Even here, there were protestors, she thought, sighing to herself, choosing to walk the outer perimeter of the park to avoid the ruckus. Motorcyclists revved up at the zebra crossing, after slowing to watch the mini-parade.

But she walked onward onto an abandoned road that ran parallel to a wired fence, broken glass and garbage strewn amidst dirt and gravel. At least no one was here. The green ocean ran thick and milky, silver shimmers and mirrors appearing between waves as the sun set behind. Dark forested cliffs ran towards each other on the other shore, never meeting as the water opened out into the forever of the horizon.

The clamour died down and the woman made her way back up and around into the park, wrapping her shawl closer around her bare shoulders. It was the first time she walked this city avoiding people's gaze, looking up, down and beyond, but choosing not to acknowledge those souls that ventured neighbourly friendliness. She passed the stone dogs that stood guard -this province's namesake, the Newfoundlander  and the Lab. Quickly scanning the park bench for signs of spilled booze or human expectorations from the long-weekend's festivities (and finding neither), she took a seat, near the edge of the dock.

Small boats rocked up and down, swaying slightly from side to side, well-anchored. Second Chance and some lame name from Toronto. She liked Second Chance, blue and simple with that picture-bookish scrawl of the painted white name on its side. She stared into the wind, into the green water, the colourful houses in the distance on one of those reaching cliffs -mere lego structures from here -the large boats, the small boats, the smell of a salty sea. And the tears had already arrived. What was she doing here? Did she even belong in this far-away place? The a cappella in her ears soothed like a lullaby, as she watched a couple birds fly off together, grazing the coastline and then up into the fluffed eggshells on the last bit of blue sky.

An old man with his dog, stopped by before leaving -"Wouldn't want to go out on them boats, no. I'm gettin' sea-sick just lookin' at 'em." She laughed good-naturedly in agreement, but only to be agreeable. Truthfully, she wanted nothing more in that moment to go out in one of those boats right now, out into that infinite ocean and far away from all the unknowns of this new life, all the expectations, mainly of her own self. And far away from the loneliness in her heart and soul. At least sadness is more poetic she thought, as she stood to leave. Turning around, a peach stingray shone against the sky before morphing into a little dragon and then dappled cotton. The cars stopped to let her cross. A hundred wreaths of flowers and conifers were strewn about the grand statue and she didn't know why or what they commemorated. The restaurant she had been recommended a week ago that had been closed because of a "small fire" had reopened and teemed with hungry locals, couples and tourists amidst candlelight and dark tables and chairs. She walked past the Long Dick's Sausages truck, past the family-run chocolaterie and the Heritage Shop, then up past the brown, turquoise and yellow clapboard townhouses until she reached the navy blue of her own. My ship, my home.

As she unlocked the door and put on some tea, she found that the sadness had lifted, washed away in that sea.