Conversation

I was sitting on the rocks at the eastern cove this morning, watching the tide come in slow and deliberate, and I realized I don’t even know what day it is anymore.

Kevin and I often find ourselves losing track of time, not because we're neglecting it, but because we've let go of the need to keep pace with the outside world. The rhythms of the island have become our calendar. The tides, the seasons, the cycles of growth and decay – these are the things that govern our days now. I remember when we first moved here, we'd occasionally glance at our phones to see what day it was, but as time went on, we found ourselves checking less and less. The news, the emails, the reminders – all of it just seemed so... distant. And yet, in a way, it's not like we're disconnected from the world. We're connected to it in a different way, through the land and the sea, through the silence and the stillness. I've been thinking a lot about the idea of time lately, and how it relates to our experience here. It's funny – we used to think of time as this linear, progressive thing, but now I'm starting to see it as more cyclical, more fluid. The tides come in and go out, the seasons come and go, and we're a part of that cycle, not separate from it.