I’ve posted more than once about in-between places, and the magic we find there. I found myself pondering the edges again after a few hours solitude in a very magical in-between place earlier this week.
I needed to get away from noise and crowds. I found a place on Sauvie Island, empty of other people, nearly silent except for birdsong, rustling leaves–and the occasional airplane.
It may look rural, but Sauvie Island sits at the edge of Portland, a short drive from the center of the city.
It’s an in-between place if I ever saw one: on this day, it even rested between seasons, at the very edge of summer’s end.
I could smell it in the air: the live green smell of leaves and grass mingling with traces of decaying leaves and wild blackberries ripening in the September sun.
And see it in the first changing leaves on the blackberry vines.
The path I walked skirted the water’s edge.
And I felt, often, like I was somehow between earth and sky, like a simple leap could land me among the unbelievable clouds.
My walk spanned the transition from sun and heat to rain; in fact, the first raindrops started to fall at the exact moment I reached the boundary of the wild area I was exploring, so one half of my walk was in sunlight, the other in cloud-shadow.
I often think I want to disappear into the wilderness and revel in the silence permanently. But the truth is such a life wouldn’t suit me for long. I think I’m just destined to always live at the edges of things.
I used to lament my fringe dwelling, but the truth is I’m more comfortable here. It’s a gift to be able to touch the edges of many realities, even if it’s sometimes an uneasy one.