Down the well-groomed, well-marked, sandy-surfaced trail I stepped. I could have easily driven to the lot at the end of the park and walked quickly out to the little island where I planned to do my sit spot. Instead, I chose to stroll a mile along the trail through the woods, to take the time to tune my senses, to open my awareness, to bring my attention to the present.

The whitish-tan sand scrunched ever so softly under my shoes. The sandy soil yielded ever so slightly under my shoes, a yielding that cued me to slow my pace, to take in the woods around me.

Tall, straight-trunked, loblolly pines surrounded the trail. The pine branches caught and fragmented the bright South Carolina sunshine dappling the leaf laden forest floor in a patchwork of light and shadow. The air, in the low 60s, was dry and warm and fresh and felt good against my skin. I was completely comfortable in a long sleeve shirt with rolled up sleeves, a welcome contrast to the cold temperatures of Pennsylvania.

The harsh sounds of traffic from the coastal highway slowly diminished as I progressed along the trail. I began to hear the sounds of the forest, a faint rising and falling shhhhh of the breeze hushing through the pine boughs. I noticed the songs of the birds; the bright whistle of a cardinal, the clear here, here, here of a tufted titmice, the harsh caws of distant crows, and the creative song snippets of a mockingbird.

Faint squeaks and cheeps sounded nearby. I stopped, filtered out the background noise and focused on the calls. The birds moved closer, flitting through the canopy of pine branches, heading my way. I heard a distinct, quick fee-bay, fee-bay, followed by a volley of high, fast, chick-a-dee-dee-dee calls. These were Carolina chickadees, different in plumage and song from the black-capped species I knew from my home in Pennsylvania.

I lingered and listened enjoying this southern version of a familiar bird. They came closer and I tracked them with my binoculars, a little flock of five, flipping like trapeze artists through the pine branches calling and singing back and forth. For a second I wondered what it be like to join them, to ramble through the high pine branches, to call and sing, to look down and fully see the forest.

Continuing down the trail, I paused from time to time to listen to the birds, to gaze up at the forms of the pine trees against the blue sky. By the time I reached the boardwalk that led across the saltmarsh, I felt absorbed into the world of nature, felt grateful to be at this place, at this time.

Proceeding across the boardwalk, I came to the little island, crossed to the other side and arrived at a simple bench situated under a red cedar, a spot I had scouted yesterday, a spot where I could sit comfortably and have a clear view of the Intercoastal Waterway and the surrounding salt marsh. I sat down on the bench, pulled out my notebook, drew a circle for my first 10 minute interval, and began to note my impressions.

Through an arch of live oak branches I saw that the water was flowing right to left, out to sea, an ebbing tide. Puffs of breeze whooshed through the cedar boughs above. A small orange butterfly flapped by. Insects circled around my head; a bee buzzed by. A bright white gull flapped lazily over the waterway; two dark turkey vultures soared high above the far shore.

There were people around, walking for exercise, walking their dogs. The Vereen Memorial Historical Gardens, a 115 acre preserve of coastal forest and marshland was a popular spot for residents, tourists, nature lovers, and bird watchers. Occasionally a boat cruised down the waterway, sail boats under power, power boats, fishing boats. Even though I wasn’t alone, my process of observation seemed to create a bubble of privacy as people simply walked by me.

Bird calls nearby. I spotted small birds flitting through branches. What were they? I sat still, listened, watched, and waited. The little flock came closer; warbler sized, long tails, white and gray, vaguely familiar calls. They flew into a nearby live oak. I had a good view; blueish gray on top, whitish underneath, rapid nasal spee, spee, spee calls. Then it came to me. These were blue-gray gnatcatchers.

I smiled inwardly. Sometimes during a sit spot it just worked out this way. If I sat still and waited, a mystery was solved, nature revealed itself. It seemed almost as if I was rewarded for offering up my time and attention.

Turning my gaze back to the waterway I noticed that the water level was slowly, inexorably dropping gradually revealing mud and sand and multicolored shells. Fifty yards to my left a slender ribbon of mud and shells emerged as the tide receded. A single gull landed on the mud flat and began to waddle-walk across the mud and through the shells picking for food.

Gazing out at the channel I watched a powerboat slowly cruise by, watched the wake waves splash onto the shore. A tern flapped above the water. Two crows flew by. I swatted a few hovering mosquitoes. People walked by. An airplane flew high overhead.

I glanced again at the mudflat which had grown considerably. Two laughing gulls with black heads, dark gray back and wings, and white chest flew purposefully toward the mudflat, set their wings, glided down, landed, called out their seashore evocative hah, hah, hah, and set to work, waddling across the mud, scanning and finding freshly revealed morsels to eat.

Three more ring-billed gulls appeared over the waterway, flew straight to the mudflat, landed and joined the feeding crew. I continued to watch the mudflat as it grew larger and larger, revealing strands of shells and spiky clusters of oysters. Soon four more laughing gulls arrived, then another pair of ring-billed gulls, and a trio of grackles. Two willets, with their long angled white and brown patterned wings beating rapidly, cruised along the shoreline, set their wings and landed on the mudflat.

It felt almost as if something shifted, as if a tangible switch had been turned, and the birds with their immaculate sense of tidal timing knew that the mudflat was open and ready for dining. I looked at the four different kinds of birds patrolling the mud flat, picking for tide revealed delicacies, sharing the feast. Every so often the laughing gulls would break into a loud volley of hah, hah, hah calls.

I watched the birds feeding and then as if the daily specials were sold out, they began to slowly disperse, perhaps moving on to new mud flats, to new openings and offerings.

A woman carrying a camera with a large telephoto lens walked up and asked me what I was doing. She said that I had looked very focused as she approached on the boardwalk. I explained that I was doing a sit spot. She said she was a self-taught photographer, that people told her she had a good eye for nature. She was visiting family and came to take pictures of the salt marsh, the waterway, and the blue spring sky.

Although the sit spot is a solitary endeavor I always enjoyed these meetings with someone who seemed a kindred spirt, someone who had a similar but different interest in nature. She obliged me by taking a picture of me at my sit spot on the bench.

My hour was winding down. I looked at the surrounding wishing trees, the branches of live oak and juniper where people hung oyster shells after making a wish. I couldn’t imagine making a wish for myself as I felt so happy, content and fulfilled at my sit spot.

But then I thought about my two daughters and simultaneously I thought of a post I had seen on Facebook about the Japanese concept of Ikigai a pathway to meaning in life where your work combines passion-mission-vocation-profession in equal measures. Both daughters worked in the human service field, work that demands much on many levels.

I found a large oyster shell, polished bright white by the action of water and sand, a shell with a neat hole at one end. I wished them both Ikigai in their work and life, reached up and hung the shell securely on a cedar twig, where it could sway gently in the breeze and witness the web of life linked to the ebb and flow of the tide.

This sit spot was conducted at the Vereen Memorial Historical Gardens near Little River, SC on March 21, 2019.

Read more about sit spots and nature connection in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.