Where the Land Ends

I spent this morning trying to organize my bookshelf, pulling out old journals that I haven’t opened in years. I found a pressed flower from a trip I took when I was twenty, and for a moment, I was back on that beach, feeling the salt air against my skin. It is strange how we hold onto these fragments of the past, these weathered remnants of who we used to be. We often think of history as something heavy, something that anchors us to one spot, but sometimes it feels more like the tide—constantly pulling at the edges of our lives, smoothing out the rough parts until only the essence remains. We leave pieces of ourselves behind in the places we visit, and in turn, those places leave their mark on us, quiet and permanent. It makes me wonder if we ever truly leave anywhere, or if we just keep extending ourselves further into the landscape, piece by piece, until we are woven into the very ground we walk upon.

Leanne Lindsay has captured this feeling perfectly in her beautiful image titled The Wallarah Jetty. It feels like a bridge between the world we know and the vast, quiet history of the coast. Does this scene make you feel like you are arriving somewhere, or leaving it behind?