How the soul speaks

In images and metaphor

Dear Reader,

Hello. How are you? It’s good to be back. I took an impromptu summer break to figure out what I’m doing here on Substack and what the writing is building towards. (More on this in a later post.)

Last month, my husband and I went on a short island vacation. We rented a small cottage very close to a beach we’ve visited a few times. We love this beach because it is relatively quiet and has an expansive stretch of golden sand that is perfect for going on really long walks. There is a picturesque small river at one end of the beach that empties into a shallow bay and a wide, green stream on the other, and the color of the water keeps changing -blue, navy, teal, and bottle green- and creating magic. Walking here is like walking inside a sunlit kaleidoscope because you never know what color will capture you and hold you in its thrall.

We’ve developed a simple routine for these trips- right after breakfast, we walk from our rental cottage to the beach for a lengthy ramble from one end of the beach to the other followed by a short dip in the water, and we do it again in the evening, post-dinner. Whatever else we do (or don’t do ) during the rest of the day, we never miss these walks which are really bookends to our days on the island.

On this evening, it was after sunset. We stepped from the beach onto the road that led to our cottage about 5 minutes away. The street lights had come on, but they were spaced far apart and we walked in alternating pools of semi-grayness and hazy light. Many houses lined the beachfront and the roads leading to it, and we were talking about how it would feel to live in one of them, with the ocean as backyard. As we walked past the small house closest to the beach, we got a glimpse into the kitchen. It had two pendant lamps creating diffuse yellow circles of warmth on the countertop. I thought I heard someone talking, a laugh, and the clink of a fork against the plate, and I was gripped by a sudden melancholy. There must be a name for this feeling which comes on when you are standing outside on the street on a misty evening and catch a glimpse into someone’s home. Warmth seems to be over there, inside. I’ve sure you’re noticed that evenings, rainy days, and being far away from home can combine to bring on this feeling of otherness, of being an onlooker in the world rather than a participant.

We paused when we saw a house we hadn’t spotted before. I think it sat right on the beach, but it was large enough that it could be accessed from the road we were on. It had a dark wood exterior and a sloping roof. At one end of the house, in what looked like a large study or home office, two pairs of large windows sat opposite each other, one pair facing the road we were on and the other looking out, probably, directly onto the water. You could see the silhouette of two table lamps on a wide table or desk of some sort though the lamps weren’t turned on. There were no curtains or blinds, no one seemed to be in the room, and so, you could stand there, look in, and imagine yourself sitting at the table every evening, perhaps with a cup of tea, and gazing at the darkening ocean.

Ah, I thought to myself, I’m drawn to it because I’m always drawn to such rooms in houses, a place where I can close the door on the world and just write. It’s that old longing beating at my chest again. A room with all my books, a stack of old textiles that I could take out and stare at for inspiration, and every wall covered with art.

Ah, an answering whisper came from some Other place or person or part, but what if it’s not a room you want, but an attitude, a way of approaching life?

In that moment, it felt like I was the only one on the dark island, the ocean now inside me, and I could hear the susurration of the waves as they rose and fell and sloshed against my sides.

Dear Reader, what if our longings are the soul speaking in images and metaphors?

I’d love to hear what you think.

Best,

Priya