Cradled Upon the Waves

We spent last week on Prince Edward Island, the bit of heaven in the Canadian Maritimes that I’ve visited almost every summer of my life. We’re home now, but I feel like I left something of myself in the red sand.

Though I’m never sure about how I feel about “personal mythologies,” the Island is at the heart of my story of being and becoming.

I learned to walk in the “listening room” at the back of the 19th-century farmhouse on French River. The place is still in the family, and we’re always welcomed there with open arms. When I graduated from the long Anne of Green Gables braids, I was the teenager lost in the landscape, scribbling down poetry, listening to “Fields of Gold” on repeat, wandering about nearly delirious with the longing to fall in love. (The fact that PEI’s infinite natural beauty is studded with delightfully tacky tourist attractions and fishing shacks, not castles and fairy lore, never deterred my romantic fantasies.)

I couldn’t really tell you the story of my life without the Island. The shoreline, the cliffs, the fields, the aunts, the uncles, the cousins, the herons in the marsh… they’re in the bones of me. Just about everyone who has mattered most in my life, I have taken them with me to the Island. The summer pilgrimage to get there feels like an act of devotion (and not just because it’s such a long drive to get there from the Hudson Valley!).

Every time a new view of rolling pasture opens up, every time a bend in the road offers a new narrow harbor, every time an eagle soars by or the neighborhood fox leaps in the spent lupines… I whisper thank you.

Over the years, I’ve done a lot of research about Prince Edward Island. I have never bothered to figure out who that guy Ed was. Instead, I offer my gratitude to Abegweit.

That’s the word for the Island I learned as a child when I was taught it was the indigenous word for a place more beautiful than any crown. Abegweit translates to “cradled upon the waves.” It’s been a song in my heart ever since.

(Recently, I have learned that the more correct word, which represents the language of the Mi’kmaq First Nations People is Epekwitk, rather than the Anglicized “Abegweit.” I’m learning to change the words of my song of gratitude. Next, I need to learn to say “thank you” in the Mi’kmaq tongue.)

I’ve been home nearly a week, but I’m still trying to find my way back to the typical landlocked routine. It hasn’t been easy. Somehow, a vacation that includes 1600 miles in a Rav4 with the beloved family, including the giant dog, doesn’t cure that tired-in-my-very-marrow feeling.

I’m letting myself return to emails slowly. I’m filling the journal pages with not-yet-speech-ripe ideas. I’m extending the KnotWork Myth & Storytelling hiatus for at least another week, but new episodes will be out before the end of the month.

We will be having our next Myth Workers’ Hearth gathering on Sunday, August 23 at 10 AM.

The monthly gatherings are open to all paid subscribers. Please upgrade your subscription to receive the Zoom invitation. And, between now and our gathering, you can make the most of your subscription with the Turas series, the podcast within the podcast I’ve been producing for Myth Workers’ Hearth members over the last season.