Acadia National Park, Maine.
It is sunset, and I stand high above the Atlantic on a pedestal of pink granite. The platform is just about big enough for me and my gear, and the thoughts that I lay out and examine as I wait for the glow. After awhile on the rock, the motion of the waves and proximity of the edge makes me feel like I'm floating. The ocean has blasted this coast forever, and the debris of former cliffs litter this little bay. The cove below me dead ends a ways behind me, against a wall of rock, that forms a bridge of sorts, that I crossed from the cliffs to get out here. I have often climbed down the ledges and slabs of Acadia to explore a beach or cove, but the cliffs here are too sheer, and I do not see a clear way down. Sometimes it’s better to look at things from a different perspective--to view as if from a raven's nest. I know what it's like at ground level. If I walk that beach, the walls will shelter me from the wind. I will move on rounded stones of exquisite smoothness. The tide will rise and recede ahead, each wave a demarcation of time. Washing in one after another, they talk to you like a welcoming conversation. Going forward is going to the edge. I could go back, but do I want to? I’m lost in it, kind of hypnotized, living the dream. But I am two people. The other tries to see what's ahead for himself down there, and wonders if there's a direction that's safe for his journey. That part of me sees walls that narrow my vision, watches me struggle on bad footing, hears the lies in the waves, waiting to betray me. Rational versus emotional. One lives in the moment, the other wants to avoid the unavoidable. Both find no answers in the end, do they...and I ask myself, which has the better view?