Stories

Personal Entry from Jann Arden's Journal

Not A Rock At All, 28-Mar-2002 06:06 pm

 

The wind blew me over the Island of Newfoundland today.

We went, the seven of us, in a rental van to the furthest most easterly point in North American, they tell me, to look out over the sea.

The rain blasted us sideways and the waves crashed into the rocks like drunken men in the pubs do here.

There is more beer than there is sense and more good people per capita than anywhere else on the planet.

There are more "God bless YOU's" said in a single day than I have ever heard in a year any place else.

I love it.

Houses are painted with adventure and a little genius here and there. Pink and red and yellow and bright boy blue.

The Maritimes are colour and more colour. Art hangs on every wall. Every nook is a memory here.

Every one notable.

Not a rock at all.

A big beautiful ship heading out to sea every morning and back home to the harbour at night.

I saw the world's saddest sweetest graveyard. Lop-sided stones with long gone names worn out by the sun and the water and the wind.

Little houses that serve as churches on Sunday when a cross is hung on the back door.

Old boats washed up onto the rocks that serve as a reminder of how big God is.

This is a wonderful place.

It's full of people talking a new language. I say pardon me ten times a day, and I can't wait for the dear soul to repeat what in the heck he said. It rolls off of their tongues like rum and lime on a hot day.

I won't be singing for a while.

I am happy for that.

The notes are fading, blown out for the fish to eat, and for me to remember until the next time.

Kim Stockwood's family were at the show last night and gave me the world's sweetest little painting.

I know just where I am going to put it so I can see it all day long.

Today is good.

It is dark outside. I want to go to bed, but we are all heading out for dinner.

I am taking Russ to the airport tonight to send him off to Scotland to be married.

Could have sworn he was just a boy, and now he is not. He is still a boy to me.

Newfoundland.

Air so clean and fresh it makes you dizzy with life. One or two puffs and you are cured of all things. All things. Your lungs burn with it.

You soak up the sky and the earth and you want to lie down and sleep.

I imagine them coming here 500 years ago, and surviving this place.

The cold must have been immeasurable.

The task of just being, insurmountable.

The fires they must have had to have burning all day and night just to get through it all.

God.

You stand on the cliffs and look out at time and you realize how silly it is to count it.

You have to just weather it.

You have to just stand and watch it and try not to get it caught on the sleeve of a sweater for fear you'll be dragged away.

Part of me will stand here, and be watching the waves for the rest of this life.

jann