If you’ve ever been to Bar Harbor, Maine, you’ve likely heard about Bar Island, the tree-covered sanctuary that sits isolated in the harbor for most of the day. When the tide drops, however, a wide sandbar emerges as a walking path between Mt. Desert Island and Bar Island. For about 90 minutes, twice a day, Bar Island becomes a bustling thoroughfare of tourists, giggling like children at the idea of walking across the harbor on foot, collecting rocks and shells on the way.
Bar Island was beautiful on a perfect July morning, but our experience was muddied by the crowds. Each turn in the wooded rocky paths inspired me to reach for my camera, but no angle could avoid the people.
The meadows between the trees were filled with wildflowers, including lupines whose blooms we’d missed, but whose foliage collected the moisture from the previous day’s fog. We stole these moments of beauty among the crowds, intimate moments among the chaos. For a second looking through the lens, the rest of the world disappears.
I longed to be just us; I imagined hiding, waiting for the tide to rise so we could quietly explore every nook and cranny without interruption.
There are days when our lives feel like low tide, when the noisy chaos of life streams endlessly through our personal sanctuaries. Our 24/7/365 connections to even the most distant acquaintances leave little room for these personal moments where the world disappears and we can be two kids exploring and enjoying together. Our lives have no high tide, no walls, no moat around those most treasured.
We need to make a new high tide.