Marjorie Turner Hollman is an author, creator, observer, and disability advocate who loves the outdoors. Link to all Marjorie’s books.
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One of my favorite pieces of shoreline is on the southeast coast of Massachusetts. New England is well known for its rugged, rocky coast. This little spit of land, Gooseberry Island, juts out into Long Island Sound and has some sandy beaches and oversize boulders. A causeway allows visitors to drive out onto the island.
Our most recent visit was on a bright sunny winter’s day. The light breeze was a welcome change from other winter visits that have chilled us to the bone. The island has little elevation. Thick scrub fills most of the interior. Strong waves crash predominantly on only one side of the shoreline. The sure-footed are able to easily navigate the entire circumference, clockwise or counter.
I am less than sure-footed. And yet I, like the wildlife, love this place. The surrounding rocky ocean bottom hides a great variety of food. Migrating birds settle in for the winter, and year-round species comb the shoreline or dive into the depths searching for their next meal. Eiders and piping plovers nest in the spring and raise their young here.
For the many years one side of my body has been compromised by neurological damage. Many of the muscles in my right hip, foot, and ankle do not talk to my brain. The neural connections in my left side, however, work quite well, allowing me to walk with support.
I’ve learned that healing occurs when our bodies are ready, no sooner. Even if our physical self is ready to move or function differently, we may fail to notice. That failure to notice may be remedied, but in the now, it is a missed opportunity.
It has become a way of life for me, learning to adapt, strategize, and obtain support to feed what my spirit hungers for. To be able to simply stride along with ease. To take in my surroundings. To look, to listen, to feel the breeze, and smell the salt air.
Searching out Easy Walks has become my passion. Often, when I encounter a place that is not an Easy Walk, (not too many roots or rocks, mostly level, with firm footing), I say, “One and done.” The effort to avoid falls and the inability to take in my surroundings leaves me exhausted, with little desire to repeat the experience.
This island, however, invites me to slow down; to stop, look, and listen. Pausing to tuck my hiking poles underneath my arm, I grab my camera and seek to capture the wonder of this singular spot. The balm of the waves. The wildlife persistently in search of food. The surprises, always the surprises: migrating monarch butterflies, eider duckling armadas, sunning cormorants, colliding ocean currents, ospreys conducting successful hunts, then soaring off to feed their newly hatched chicks.
A wide-packed earthen path bisects the island. Turning my footsteps in its direction has given me a respite from the challenging shoreline. During WWII this corridor was paved and transported those who stood watch for submarines cruising in Long island Sound. The enemy might be right off shore, waiting for an opportunity to press its advantage. Remnants of the paving are visible where blowing sand has not obliterated the solid surface.
A concrete watchtower stands to this day, a graffiti-covered reminder of a time of fear.
The leeward (sheltered) side of the island hosts slipper shells, drying seaweed, car-size boulders here and there, and scattered stones. The windward shoreline absorbs the impact of relentless waves that hurl smooth beach cobbles onto land, creating a solid carpet of rounded rock from the water’s edge up to the scrub where waves (for the most part) cannot reach. Without wading into the surf, visitors must avoid this section of the island or step from one polished rounded surface to the next. An obstacle course for many. For me, a gated and padlocked rock wall.
On this most recent visit the temperature was just right for me. Not so cold that my limbs stiffened. Not so warm that my right leg began dragging. Joy in being at the ocean propelled me on, despite the challenging footing.
We wended our way through the cobbles and shells along the sheltered shoreline. I took my husband’s hand when needed. Watching him stride easily over these rounded stones, smoothed by currents and sand and waves, the awareness of my body’s abilities shifted. But why now? As with other instances when I have experienced sudden healing, be it mind or body, I have no good explanation.
Now, about those cobbles. In an area with multiple stones (but not a solid surface of them) my husband stepped confidently on the top of each stone, never hesitating. A thought intruded. My left foot, if I was not mistaken, might, (could?), be able to do the same. I stepped on one cobble, then swung my right foot onto solid, level sand. So far so good. Another step, and I could feel the muscles in my left foot shift and balance, holding me upright even as I brought my right foot to the next place where it could safely settle.
As we approached the area strewn with cobbles, I yearned to find a path through to the other side. Somehow I thought (hoped) this time would be different. Couldn’t I depend on my left foot to get me through half of the maze of stones, depending on Jon’s help only for what was lacking on my right? He shook his head. A recent injury had compromised his ability to support me as I would have needed. With reluctance, I turned aside and took the Easy Walk back, the wide, smooth inner passage through the middle of the island to where we had started. But even there rocks scattered along the edge of the path lured me over to them. Purposely stepping with my left foot onto each stone jutting above the more solid surface, my muscles flexed, shift, balance, and smooth my way over them. As at other times when I have recognized healing, the sense of exhilaration was thrilling.
Must I still take care when I head outside? Well, yes. Half of my means of locomotion by foot is not a match for the other. Off balance, awkward. And yet, the foot with all its muscles intact stands ready to do its part. Willing to flex those small muscles in my ankle and foot. Allowing me to trust that the functioning muscles will hold while I protect my right foot. Those muscles hear only the very weakest of signals, if any, from my damaged brain.
Why had I not recognized, had in fact, minimized what this functioning part of me was capable of? My sense is that it has taken me years of figuring out how to navigate a world structured for those with two functioning feet. Half of my feet do not function well. But the other half? I had neglected to acknowledge all it is capable of. Paid little attention to the portion of me that works well. The stronger part kept its light under a bushel, hidden from sight, while the leg that demanded support sucked up all the oxygen in the room.
My left foot has been mostly ignored for a long time. Biding its time. Waiting for my heart to shift (yet again) and recognize healing of sorts, even if it is simply in learning to appreciate a part of me that has been doing its best for a very long time.
Will I still seek out Easy Walks? Of course. Do I dare risk spending time on trails that offer obstacles akin to those I encounter on Gooseberry Island? When given the chance, I intend to try.
Marjorie
Marjorie Turner Hollman 