Sometimes, when I am at the lighthouse, and I know this sounds embarrassing, I face the lighthouse and stand with my toes touching the base of the tower.  The lighthouse goes all the way to the ground.  There is no building, no barrier, no coastal rocks to scale between you or me, and the lighthouse.  

I lift my arms wide over my head.  I place my hands firmly against the lighthouse, and close my eyes.  It’s not often one gets to touch your toes and place your hands on a lighthouse.  Then, I look all the way up to the top of the tower, bow my head and draw in the ever-present strength and silence — of the lighthouse. 

I usually do this around my birthday because the marker of a birthday is— well, a big one.  Or, when some cloud scribble takes shape over my head.  We are always pitching forward in time and knocked from one dark cloud to the next.  The lighthouse expands time. 

The trick is to do this when no one is watching, which is hardly ever.  There are always people milling about and taking photos at different angles.  How about if you stand over there?  They arrive in groups, and are never, ever quiet. 

Once I do find a moment, I stand for as long as possible.  The circumference of the lighthouse is so vast and so wide that I cannot see if someone is coming around the other side or not.  And so, I listen.

The best time is in winter when the days are wild and cold.  Or crisp, and strikingly blue.  At that point the wind, a little short of a gale, makes standing at length almost impossible. 

I'll take the elements any day to stand next to the lighthouse.