Time on the Beach

Lake Manitoba beach

I’ve spent some of the best moments of my life on shorelines … whether as a kid going to camp and singing around a sunset beach fire … as a young person soaking up sun on a beach towel surrounded by the smell of sunscreen … as a mom, building sandcastles with her kids … or as a ‘mature’ beachcomber hunting for garden driftwood. 

Sandcastle construction beside Lake Winnipeg

Even my 2019 research trip to Kaliningrad and Schleswig Holstein involved the beach. If ever there was an edge to sit on, the beach has promised me the best view … of waves, of clouds, of sunsets, of endless storied stones and, equally, of endless storied people. 

Baltic at Svetlogorsk (former Rauschen)

Summers are so short here in Manitoba and we’ve had our share of rainy days this year … so yesterday’s shoreline trip was a treat. Exploring with a couple of kids in tow reminded me of past beach magic. We returned to the city with pet rocks and some caged fish-flies. Great adventure! 

The fact that these kids, who’d spent years in a Turkish refugee camp, got to toast their first marshmallows, ended a rather perfect beach day.

Camp Morton shore

 

Nature's Library

Lake Manitoba 

Shorelines attract me. I’m drawn to them like a bookworm to a library. They’re meeting places—where the water connects to land and to the sky.

Tangled Roots On Lake Winnipeg

I especially like rough, neglected shores, off the beaten track. A couple of days ago it was cold, windy, with intermittent rain. Not the sort of weather my dog, daughter and I had envisioned for our beach-combing adventure—but inviting—nonetheless.

The pre-holiday, off-leash dog beach was pleasantly deserted. It was just us, the crashing waves, and nature. We found art in timeless stones and in the driftwood of uprooted trees. So many stories in the ancient stone, in the wave-crushed sand and in the bare, mangled roots of once strong trees. 

I take pieces of this history home where they get artfully (I try!) arranged in my garden like souvenirs from a journey, or artifacts in a museum. My garden tells silent tales of other places and past traumas. Out of place and yet showcased … made meaningful by my memories and imagination.

My mother's shore
The Baltic Sea off the Curonian Spit

Seems to me there’s a writerly point to all this. The stones and the roots—damaged or changed by storms and by time—are like characters in a novel. Moments of trauma, of heartbreak, of the relentless passage of time, creating insight and receiving artful (I try here too!) placement into a narrative. My garden, my stories, my attempts to make meaning out of the random chaos of life. Stories ... shorelines where imagination creates art.  Shorelines … time-less and yet so time-full. 

My father's shore
View on Heligoland of the North Sea