Walking in Bar Harbor

There is something implicit in taking a walk by one's self. A sort of stated goal of achieving the sort of anonymity and succession of thoughts that are unavailable in a room filled with people. The white boats sit idly in the aquamarine water of the harbor. The path is gravel, lined by rose bushes, blooming pink, giving off the sound of bees. On my left two youths walk on the rocks below the path, picking their way carefully, while trying to appear nonchalant. "You wouldn't die if you jumped from there," one of them yells to the other. I don't know if they are talking about the water or not, but if so, it's about two inches deep. I reflect on  a different time, when I was also full of the folly and swagger of youth, so eager to prove, to prove.

Passing them I see again, a pair of people below the path, sitting at the edge of the ocean, the waves lapping at their feet. The couple, for that's what they must be, are no more than twenty, and they're sharing a cigarette, and listening to the water. They also are placed correctly, close to the water, yet distant, looking away from it, blowing smoke into the breeze. This is the place for those who have put away youthful folly without having put away youth. 

The gravel path is heavy with people. I smile at no one. I walk quickly. I do not know why I'd smile at anyone. We do not know each other. The islands in the distance hold trees, that scale their small precipices like monks on the way to prayer. Sea birds skim over the darkening water. The houses to my right are more like mansions, thick wooden gates, private tennis courts, ravens dotting a verdant lawn, searching among the rich excess for a scrap of their own. 

I pass a third couple, moments later, sitting on the rocks to the side of the path. They are older, wiser. Their rock is not hard to access, a small step over the stone wall takes them to their destination. They sit, not in the silence of contemplation as that of the youths, but in camaraderie, in something shared. I do not smile at anyone. 

At last I pass an old man in uniform, sitting beneath a tree, watching the islands, the ocean, and the birds on his break from work. I smile immediately. The rest of us are strangers here, soaking up a sun and an ocean that are not ours. I can tell by his posture against the shade tree that he belongs. And then I am forced to reflect on the doctrine of eternity, which teaches that all of humanity is united in its being strangers in a strange land. And that, given the truth of the doctrine, I should instead be smiling or frowning at everyone, for none of us belong to the sea, the sky, or the land, we belong to the heavens, and we are all so very far away.