they bear their own unimaginable masses and climates aloft, holding them up in the sky for anyone to see plain, makes them only more mysterious for their very visibility and absence of secrecy. They are the western rim of the real, if not considerably beyond it. If the Greeks had looked at Mount Baker all day, would their large and honest art not have cracked? Would they not have gone fishing, as these people do? As perhaps I one day shall.
But the mountains are, incredibly, east. When I first came here I faced east and watched the mountains, thinking, These are the Ultima Thule, the final westering, the last serrate margin of time. And since they are, incredibly, east of me, I must be no place at all. But the sun rose over the snowfields and woke me where I lay, and I rose and cast a shadow over someplace, and thought: There is, God help us, more. So gathering my bowls and spoons, and turning my head, as it were, I moved to face west, relinquishing all hope of sanity, for what is more.
What was more is islands: sea, and unimaginably solid islands, and more sea, and a hundred rolling skies. You spill your breath. Nothing holds; the whole show rolls. I can imagine Virginias no less than Pacifics. Inland valley, pool, desert, plain—it’s all a falling sheaf of edges, like a quick-flapped deck of cards, like a dory or a day launched all unchristened, lost at sea. Land is a poured thing and time a surface lapping and fringeing at fastness, at a hundred hollow and receding blues. Breathe fast: We’re backing off the rim.
Here is the fringey edge where elements meet and realms mingle, where time and eternity spatter each other with foam. The salt sea and the islands, molding and molding, row upon rolling row, don’t quit; nor do winds end nor skies cease from spreading in curves. The actual percentage of land mass to sea in Puget Sound equals that of the rest of the planet. We have less time than we knew. Time is eternity’s pale interlinear, as the islands are the sea’s. We have less time than we knew and that time buoyant and cloven, lucent, and missile, and wild.
The room where I live is plain as a skull, a firm setting for windows. A nun lives in the fires of the spirit, a thinker lives in the bright wick of the mind, an artist lives jammed in the pool of materials. But this room is a skull, a fire tower, wooden, and empty. Of itself it is nothing, but the view, as they say, is good.
Since I live in one room, one long wall of which is glass, I am myself, at everything I do, a backdrop to all the landscape’s occasions, all its weathers, colors and lights. From the kitchen sink, and from my bed, and from the table, couch, hearth, and desk, I see land and water, islands, sky.
The land is complex and shifting; the eye leaves it. There is a white Congregationalist church among Douglas firs; there is a green pasture between two yellow fallow fields; there are sheep bent over below some alders, and beside them a yard of brown hens. But everything in the landscape points to sea. The land’s progress of colors leads the eye up a far hill, a sweeping big farm of a hill whose pale pastures bounce light all day from a billion stems and blades. Down the hill’s rim drops a dark slope of forest, a slant your eye rides down to the point, the dark sliver of land that holds the bay. From this angle you see the bay cut a crescent; your eye flies up the black beach to the point, or slides down the green firs to the point, and the point is an arrow pointing over and over, with its log-strewn beach, its gray singleness, and its recurved white edging of foam, to sea: to bright Haro Strait, the bluing of water with distance at the world’s edge, and on it the far blue islands, and over these lights the light clouds.
You can’t picture it, can you? Neither can I. Oh, the desk is yellow, the oak table round, the ferns alive, the mirror cold, and I never cared. I read. In the Middle Ages, I read, “the idea of a thing which a man framed for himself was always more real to him than the actual thing itself.” Of course. I am in my own Middle Ages; the world at my feet, the world through the window, is an illuminated manuscript whose leaves the wind takes, one by one, whose painted illuminations and halting words draw me, one by one, and I am dazzled in day and lost.
There is, in short, one country, one room, one enormous window, one cat, one spider, and one person: but I am myself hollow. And, for now, there are the many gods of mornings and the many things to give them for their work—lungs and heart, muscle, nerve, and bone—and there is a no-man’s-land of many things wherein they dwell, and from which I seek to call them, in work that’s mine.
So I read. Armenians, I read, salt their newborn babies. I check somewhere else: so did the Jews at the time of the prophets. They washed a baby in water, salted him, and wrapped him in cloths. When God promised to Aaron and all the Levites all the offerings Israel made to God, the firstfruits and the firstling livestock, “all the best of the oil, and all the best of the wine,” he said of this promise, “It is a covenant of salt forever.” In the Roman church baptism, the priest once placed salt in the infant’s mouth.
I salt my breakfast eggs. All day long I feel created. I can see the blown dust on the skin on the back of my hand, the tiny trapezoids of chipped clay, moistened and breathed alive. There are some created sheep in the pasture below me, sheep set down here precisely, just touching their blue shadows hoof to hoof on the grass. Created gulls pock the air, rip great curved seams in the settled air. I greet my created meal, amazed.
I have been drawing a key to the islands I see from my window. Everyone told me a different set of names for them, until one day a sailor came and named them all with such authority that I believed him. So I penciled an outline of the horizon on a sheet of paper and began labeling the lobes: Skipjack, Sucia, Saturna, Salt Spring, Bare Island . . .
Today, November 18 and no wind; today a veil of air has lifted I didn’t know was there. Behind the blue translucence of Salt Spring Island I see a new island, a new wrinkle, the deepening of wonder. I have no way of learning this new island’s name. Still, I bring the labeled map to the table and pencil in a new line. Call that: Unknown Island North; Water-Statue; Sky-Ruck; Newborn and Salted; Waiting for Sailor.
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