Certain places speak more than oth­ers. Some have old­er souls than oth­ers. Some­times it feels like you’re dis­cov­er­ing some­where that no one’s ever been before, and some­times though it is more than obvi­ous that sev­er­al hun­dred thou­sand peo­ple or more have tra­versed these very grounds before you, you still feel new in your own two feet (even if you’re not on the ground upon which you tread). All of these places have sto­ries to tell — some sto­ries were writ­ten by the peo­ple who found them, some sto­ries were writ­ten by the his­to­ry of the land itself, and some came to be as time kept and keeps mov­ing for­ward.

And then there are the places that breathe and bend, dance and break, seek and sleep, and live filled by an ancient vital­i­ty that sat­u­rates the air and seeps in from the sea. These are the winds that whis­per more than ambi­gu­i­ties in the whistling wind, their words are clear and direct with­out need for inter­pre­ta­tion.

The land is hard and rocky, tough and relent­less — large, lay­ered and smooth, crawl­ing from the sea, pre­his­toric giants lunge and fall and stay. Halt­ed. Unable to go any fur­ther. Piles of bro­ken rock and boul­ders over­look the shore, they guard the ends of the earth. The land here does not belong to man, it belongs to the earth — you are a guest here, a vis­i­tor, and a stu­dent.

Only a few hun­dred yards away from this epic nat­ur­al won­der lies a giant lime­stone quar­ry which is visu­al­ly breath tak­ing but absolute­ly lacks the soul of the shore and the sea.

Adorned in pris­tine geom­e­try and bril­liant sat­u­rat­ed hues of every col­or of in spec­trum, it looks like a scene from a sto­ry­book — some­where you would only expect to find in a dream or a fairy tale. It is sur­round­ed by woods, com­plete­ly hid­den from the world, wide open to it at the same time.

Hal­ibut Point in Rock­port, MA — the air here is rest­less, and by that I am set­tled.

The first time I came here, I was 19 years old and had just fin­ished up my first year at Berklee. I remem­ber climb­ing on top of the same rocks, I remem­ber walk­ing around the same quar­ry, I remem­ber star­ing out into the sea from the same spot on the rocky shore — notic­ing for the first time how much more vast and enig­mat­ic the ocean seemed from a point ver­sus a long beach — and I remem­ber feel­ing like there were end­less oppor­tu­ni­ties and pos­si­bil­i­ties wait­ing for me, I had my entire life ahead of me and I was going to make some­thing incred­i­ble out of myself.

Fun­ny how look­ing at the same ocean from the same spot fif­teen years lat­er fills you with a pan­ic instead of excite­ment…

Fun­ny how look­ing at the same ocean from the same spot fif­teen years lat­er fills you with a pan­ic instead of excite­ment — you can’t help but think how many oppor­tu­ni­ties you’ve wast­ed, and how many pos­si­bil­i­ties died over the last decade and a half, and while you have an awe­some fam­i­ly and hus­band, you still have no fuck­ing clue what you want to do with your life… not so inspir­ing at 35. But there’s def­i­nite­ly some­thing set­tling about that chaos — if I can feel some­thing I felt fif­teen years ago, why can’t I feel it again in anoth­er fif­teen years?

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I guess there are still a few unex­plored pos­si­bil­i­ties out there. I’ve had a decade to come up with this feel­ing, I’m sure that after anoth­er one goes by I’ll be com­plete­ly and total­ly insane. We’ll recon­vene by the sea on the rocky shore of Hal­ibut Point in anoth­er fif­teen years.

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