Happiness,Peace, and Solitude
Such values have become increasingly rare in our society. We are constantly caught up in a race - encouraged to keep up, to hang in, and to be part of everything imaginable, whether we truly need it or not. We are surrounded by an endless stream of noise, much of it disguised as breaking news and we rarely stop to consider how deeply this constant stimulation affects us. Yet. when we are given the opportunity to escape-to a quiet lake, a distant corner of the desert, a remote mountain peak, or perhaps a peaceful and beautiful garden-we may begin to notice something changing within us.
A sense of calm slowly takes hold. Then, almost unexpectedly, we experience a sudden happiness brought on by the peace and solitude surrounding us. It can feel like an awakening—as though, for a brief moment, we become aware of how far we have drifted from something essential.
The feeling can be remarkably intense. It reaches beyond the moment and lingers long after we have returned to our ordinary lives. And once we have experienced that profound sense of peace, we may find ourselves longing to return to it—to seek out that quiet place, that stillness, and that feeling of being truly present, again and again.
When I went out to the Lightstation this morning, a fresh breeze had already sprung up. I was glad I had put on a warm, solid sweater. The sky, however, was magnificent—a deep blue that seems to appear only at this time of year, when the air is so clear and crisp that everything looks sharper and more vivid.
The tide was still out, so I made my usual hike across the ocean floor, climbing up and down the stairs that form part of the access to the Head Harbour Lightstation.
I had planned to stay through high tide and then return home after a full day of work, spending my time on carpentry and painting.
The buildings here are old—very old—and they require a great deal of care and TLC.
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I have already established a small carpentry shop inside the old foghorn building. My project today was to complete something I had started a week earlier: rebuilding the small deck at the entrance to the foghorn building.
Several hours into the work, I took a short break. That was when I really noticed the peace surrounding me.
By then, the tide had risen to nearly twenty-five feet, completely cutting the Lightstation off from the mainland. Nobody could come out here. I was alone, and I would remain so until the tide receded again around 4:30 in the afternoon.
The silence was remarkable.
The only sounds were those of the sea—waves rolling, breaking, and splashing against the rocks below. Every now and then, I could hear the distant rumble of a boat somewhere out on the water, slowly making its way toward some faraway destination.
And then there was nothing again.
Just the sea, the wind, the old buildings, and the immense solitude of the place.
The feeling can be remarkably intense. It reaches beyond the moment and lingers long after we have returned to our ordinary lives. And once we have experienced that profound sense of peace, we may find ourselves longing to return to it—to seek out that quiet place, that stillness, and that feeling of being truly present, again and again.
When I went out to the Lightstation this morning, a fresh breeze had already sprung up. I was glad I had put on a warm, solid sweater. The sky, however, was magnificent—a deep blue that seems to appear only at this time of year, when the air is so clear and crisp that everything looks sharper and more vivid.
The tide was still out, so I made my usual hike across the ocean floor, climbing up and down the stairs that form part of the access to the Head Harbour Lightstation.
I had planned to stay through high tide and then return home after a full day of work, spending my time on carpentry and painting.
The buildings here are old—very old—and they require a great deal of care and TLC.
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
Several hours into the work, I took a short break. That was when I really noticed the peace surrounding me.
By then, the tide had risen to nearly twenty-five feet, completely cutting the Lightstation off from the mainland. Nobody could come out here. I was alone, and I would remain so until the tide receded again around 4:30 in the afternoon.
The silence was remarkable.
The only sounds were those of the sea—waves rolling, breaking, and splashing against the rocks below. Every now and then, I could hear the distant rumble of a boat somewhere out on the water, slowly making its way toward some faraway destination.
And then there was nothing again.
Just the sea, the wind, the old buildings, and the immense solitude of the place.
It was me, the Lighthouse and the sea
For a few hours, the outside world simply disappeared. And standing there, surrounded by nothing but nature and silence, I was reminded of how rare moments like this have become—and how deeply they can affect us when we finally experience them.
