It might come as a surprise, but my favourite season to be on the Magdalen Islands is fall. My introvert personality, combined with my job as a writer, stir me away from the summer craze and towards the quietness of the fall.
The spectacular sight of beachgrass turning red was the first thing I (re)fell in love with when I moved back to the Islands. I am a fond witness of the changing weather, the quieted coffee shops and public places, the silence reasserting its reign. The reds and the greys of the season sooth my heart. I'm at my happiest when bundled up in blankets, only braving the cold to run to the bathroom in the middle of the night (I set the thermostat at 17 degrees, it's a family trait).
The fog also fuels my ambitions as a poet: to dive in a world where everything is yet to be shaped, where people come in and out of existence in the blink of an eye, with the spin of a word. As the Maggies are readying themselves for the new year, summaries and future plans start to take form even in the foggiest of minds.
Coastal areas are often blessed with lingering fogs. Hovering droplets meet with the heat escaping the ground to give an air of mystery to the land. For writers, it's the dreamiest of creative backdrops - feet on the ground, head in the clouds - perfect for ideas to travel a bit further. Noises get muffled down, pushed away in the distance. We forget for a moment our earthly obligations, the responsibilities, the mundane. We invite ourselves to nature's grand banquet, remembering all those who came before us.
This nature mesmerizes - maybe that's why it keeps showing up into my writing? - but there's also a flip side to its omnipresence. Too thick of a fog endangers the weary travellers. The distinctive humidity of the region seems to amplify the effects of any climate disturbance, and the smallness of the Islands makes it impossible not to notice the changes. We get front row seats for the ongoing collapse of our sand dunes, our roads, our houses. It's a high price to pay to build a life in a lyrical décor.
We quickly get a grasp on the fleeting nature of things, the fog eating everything up as a warning. The winters are not what they used to be, the summers either. I see it as a duty for Islanders, native or adopted, to acknowledge these changes and to work at reducing what causes them. With each passing year, we have seen more and more community-led initiatives to protect both our physical surroundings and our cultural landscape. We take concrete steps to fix what we can and save what we love.
Poetry can be raw and abrasive, just like nature. And yet again, just like nature, poetry can move us and drive us and light the way. I hope for a poetry that can be touched and measured, a tangible armour of words to transport us through the fog.
