Yesterday we drove up the island coast to explore Qualicum Beach. It is cute and touristy, with lots of cottages and bed and breakfasts and a beach that delivers on impact with fabulous, breath-taking, bring-you-to-your knees ocean and snow-capped mountain views.
We walked the beach for a bit, but I craved something more raw, more lonely as it were. So we drove along the coast looking for a less-touristy beach. And we found it.
Although it was only a protected seafront park surrounded by a wealthy neighbourhood, it was large, wild, and empty. My husband took to his binoculaurs, and I took to hunting for unusual seashells.
At one point I stopped my scrounging to listen. I was awe-struck that I could hear nothing. No vehicular noise from a highway, no airplanes overhead, no boats in the water, no people talking, no music playing, nothing. I almost wept.
It has been decades, I'm sure, that I've experienced a silence so deep that I felt a sense of reverence. I immersed myself in that feeling, of being one with the universe, of being a tiny speck in a great scheme, of feeling connected to life in an important way.