A Mountain Home

On a humid, overcast and foggy Friday night I threw my line into the ocean. We were situated just off the easterly shores of Newfoundland in a quaint coastal town called Portugal Cove. It was only a matter of minutes before my jigger hit the ocean floor. It felt like forever, but soon with a hypothetical ‘thud’, the courting would begin. I was all too familiar with this lure, that now these unsuspecting cod were about to endure. There was nothing overly fancy about this process - a large weighted three-pronged barrel tied to a line and thrown into the ocean with not a morsel of bait on the end. Still though, the cod would bite, time and time again. So why then, were these bait-less, simplistic hooks so appealing to the cod who frequented these shores? I could identify with these creatures of the sea. I couldn't always rationalize the draw and deep connection I had to the rock – but something my heart could always so deeply comprehend. Over the years my head and heart have battled

As I stood there in awe, knee deep in mud, teeth chattering uncontrollably and legs plastered in a paper mache mud, I took in my surroundings. Moments before, we had been ushered off yellow school buses, herded like cattle and directed to wait in large fields until our ‘waves’ were called. Garbage and haggard clothing decorated the ground, people wrapped themselves in garbage bags and lay on the ground huddled close together, trying to find warmth. There were no cell phones to be found, little laughter filled the air and friendly exchanges were few. The freezing temperatures, torrential rains and heavy winds made warmth hard to find and spirits even harder to lift. There was, however, a smell of excitement in the air and an energy that even the strong winds couldn’t tame. I tried to count the endless hours that I, and the 30,000 others who surrounded me had vested into having the opportunity to stand exactly where we were standing, in that treacherous weather, at that that very mo

No blinds mask the window that directly face my bed. Every morning when my eyes open to the world, there are no concrete buildings or telephone wires in my view, there are no horns honking or the morning buzz that most cities bring. What my eyes see is something remarkable, something that is hard to describe through words and something that brings with it an indescribably humble feeling of  insignificance that is demanded in their presence. This feeling by the way, seems to never age. Ha Ling is the mountain that greets me each day and if I catch it at just the right moment a glowing hue upon it's alpine edges seems to dance amongst the surrounding mountain tops and the awe of its beauty can literally take your breath away. These are relatively new feelings for me, introduced and embraced only in the latter third of my life. I was born and raised an islander and exposure to structures such as these, or anything remotely close, was non existent. I was however exposed to a resource