Gravel grinds beneath my shoes as I walk along the make-shift path. Occasionally I have to climb over a snow-drift that has become ice boulders with the cycles of thawing and freezing. The wind is blowing in gusts, bringing a sharp cold sting to the face that I know will result in a wind burn later. The surrounding scenery is primarily jagged rock because this wind prevents most plants from taking root and thriving. The few stunted shrubs that scruff the side of my shoe.
I make my way to the edge of the cliff. The only sounds are the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks below me and the howling of the wind. This is the edge of the island. This is the eastern tip of North America. Looking out over the water, all that can be seen is the turbulent water splashing its way through patches of pack ice. The world before me seems almost black and white. Being surrounded by such barrenness with little in terms of life nearby, it’s easy to feel small and alone.
I look towards the horizon. The line where the sky meets the sea. We are only able to see approximately 15 km until we hit the horizon, but it feels so much further away. It calls me like the crashing of the waves far below me. Thousands of kilometers past the edge of the horizon you hit the shores of France. A different country, a different climate (they actually have a spring over there!), a different people, a different culture. Suddenly every part of my being wants to go explore, see new things, experience the world. It calls. There is so much out there in the world to experience. And the more you see the more you realize that all you will ever see and experience in life is only a small fragment of everything the world has to offer. The wanderlust builds up. It occurs to me that it is no surprise the youth here always desperately want to leave: in a world so rich in life and experiences, why would one want to remain in such a barren environment. Part of why they call this island “The Rock”.
I look down. A small shrub is desperately trying to work its poke its leaves out of the snow. I lean down to give it a little help. As I move the snow aside, it occurs to me that this plant which is smaller than most houseplants is most likely over a hundred years old. The plants around here are stunted from the heavy winds and the lack of soil. It’s a marvel that something so small has already been around longer than I ever will. It occurs to me that while everything may seem white now, underneath there are thousands of small plants that persevere despite the harsh conditions. The beauty of a simple plant itself can be astounding. Thousands of cells working together containing chloroplasts that we believe were bacteria that were absorbed by an ancestor but persist due to the beneficial symbiotic relationship around a billion years later. Not to mention that studies have shown that touching, smelling and looking at a plant helps to relieve stress and facilitate productivity.
In a few months time the snow will be long gone and the blueberries and cloudberries will be beginning to fruit. The sea, which now looks barren with ice, will become lively with migrating whales coming in to take advantage of the annual capelin migration. Puffins, gannets, guillemots, and murres will also be returning from their winters at sea to make colonies nearby.
The world is a big place and there is lots to see and do. But it is also important to recognize the beauty of where you are in any given moment. It’s sometimes easy to overlook the beauty and wonder that surrounds us every day, but I encourage you to take a moment to go outside, close your eyes, forget about whatever tasks are clogging your mind for the day, and just observe your present surroundings. It may not be a Hawaiian beach or a French vineyard, but it is no less beautiful if you are in the right state of mind.
