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Recently, we were driving to Buxton Village Books, a favorite bookstore tucked away in the southernmost part of the Outer Banks. I’ve driven that road for decades, and every time I pass by the black and white striped Bodie Island Lighthouse And for a brief moment wonder, what it’s like there—and why don't we stop?
Then I keep driving.
But this time, the GPS said we’d arrive at the bookstore an hour before it opened. And for some reason—maybe the beautiful cloudy sky, the cool morning air, or the tiniest pause in our usual rhythm—we decided to stop.
And I’m so glad we did.
As we left our truck behind, the Bodie Island Lighthouse stood in formal black and white, elegant and quiet. Nestled alongside was a white porch-adorned farmhouse.
At first, we were the only ones there, so we wandered down a boardwalk trail toward an overlook, surrounded by turtle and crab-inhabited lakes and swaying marsh grass. A red-winged blackbird perched on one of the railings, and then we saw six more of them in the marsh and flying overhead.
They’re said to symbolize protection, luck, and presence. A reminder that something greater may be watching, guiding, nudging when we need it most.
As we turned our backs on the lighthouse, we met three women walking toward us. As happens here, they chatted us up. One shared that even though she’d lived in Charlotte for decades, she’d never been to the Outer Banks.
And then as we reached our truck, a man who was hauling boating equipment stepped out of the truck, greeted us, and said, “I’ve passed this place for years. Always wanted to stop. And today, I did.”
It made me wonder—why do we rush past beauty, stillness, and the chance to do something—anything—different
And more curiously:
Why did we all stop now?
Three different lives, different stories, different reasons—yet somehow, we stepped off the path always taken.
Maybe that’s the quiet gift of these uncertain times. We’ve been shaken—personally, collectively. Things feel a little less predictable, more fragile. And maybe, it’s made us pay attention. Willing to press pause. Turn off autopilot.
Pull over when something has called to us for ages.
And maybe the red-tailed blackbirds’ role was to accentuate that the best part of the journey isn’t the destination—it’s the detour we never planned. The joy we never took.
Which, as it often does, leads me to a line from a Mary Oliver poem. This time it’s “Don’t Hesitate.”
Like Pema, she wisely sums up the wisdom of the experience.
“Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
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