I come to Fox Island to meditate, to reflect, to gaze across the sea until the hypnotic sound and motion of sea and wind and crashing wave become a lyric in the song of the universe.

The worldly presence of the granite beneath my bottom, the salt air, and the pungent odor of decaying sea-wrack give way to the etheriality of thought and I  wander among the swirling conversation of fifty-thousand years of human consciousness.

Distant, the cool wind whispers for attention as it lifts goosebumps along my arms. One moment I remark the lobster boat chugging past away offshore and the next I have crossed that threshold of subconscious called lost-in-thought by some, daydreaming by others, out-to-lunch by the unknowing. I am free of gravity and my mind, loosed of its temporal bonds, weightless.

Unguided, the primal inhabitant of my intellect steps out and journeys through the immeasurable reaches of my mind among those places where I have tucked away dreams and memories, the same as my dim and distant hairy ancestors at the dawning of intelligence at some point lost to time.

I am they.

I gaze unknowing, barely breathing, at the vanishing point of awareness, the same as that part of me that reaches back fifty millennia. Briefly, our conversations converge before light separates me from the dark that birthed me.

The moon kisses Fox Island twice a day, breathing life into her then sucking it away with equal romance. Fox Island is fixed to Earth, immovable, yet ceases to exist although its ancient granite bones never disappear and seagulls are free to drop mussels upon those bones to loosen the nourishing morsels trapped inside. When the island breathes again, the granite bones haven’t changed perceptibly and the seagulls carry on as they always have unaware of the miracle below them.

The wind nudges me, or was it the cry of a seagull, and I stir, refreshed.