There are places on Earth that don’t just exist on a map, but resonate with the deepest chambers of your being and the longing for that place beats in the ddepths of your very soul.

For me, that place is Newfoundland.

I am, once again, lucky enough to spend some time on these rugged, breathtaking shores.

This isn’t just a casual trip; it’s my seventh pilgrimage to this island, a place where my soul feels an unparalleled sense of home.

To arrive here, on this land that feels woven into the very fabric of my being, is an odyssey in itself. Four days of traversing wind-swept, remote landscapes and vast, breathing ocean, each mile a deepening breath.

The moment our ferry docked in Port aux Basques, something profound shifted within me. I felt it happen as the ferry lurched into place.

My soul exhaled.

I was home.

It’s been 15 years since I last walked this earth, and while I wasn’t born here, a whisper of ancestry and the embrace of dear friends have always called me back.

This particular visit holds a tender complexity. My best friend, my sister Tracy, is moving here for work, a bittersweet unfolding that tugs at my heartstrings, knowing she’ll be far from Pennsylvania, yet living in a place my soul ardently desires. But that tale is for another time.

This journey, right now, is about the ice.

It’s my first time being in Newfoundland during iceberg season, and the gravitational pull to witness these icy giants was undeniable.

So, we set off for Twillingate, also known as iceberg alley.

The first sensation that greeted me in Twillingate was a familiar scent — an intoxicating blend of smoking fish mingling with the sharp, clean salt air.

It made my stomach rumble and my heart ache with a longing to bottle that essence, to carry it home and burn it forever like a sacred candle.

The wind off the water felt like a cold kiss, stinging my face and whipping my unruly curls into a joyful tangle, like a wild embrace from the ocean itself.

We loaded up onto a boat, and headed about twelve nautical miles out to sea, routing north towards Fogo and the Change Islands, in search of the big berg the captain said was lurking just out of sight.

Two hours later, the captain said we were getting close.

As we neared the iceberg, my breath misted in icy puffs, yet I could barely breathe from anticipation.

And then, there it was.

The boat turned, and the berg loomed, a colossal presence rising 125 feet from the churning sea.

My reaction was instant, visceral.

I couldn’t stand, couldn’t speak, could barely manage a shallow breath.

I simply sat on the bench, silent tears streaming unchecked down my cheeks, great, silent sobs shaking my shoulders, unable to move, unable to wipe them away.

It was a cathedral, carved not by human hands but by the patient artistry of water and time.

More beautiful than any church I’ve ever entered, this cathedral of ice cracked my soul wide open.

It was laid bare, vulnerable and whole, upon the altar of that ancient berg.

In that moment, I was more at home, more deeply connected and balanced in spirit, mind, and body than I have ever been.

There is an innate solace for me in simply being on the water. The ocean has always called to me, but nothing prepared me for the five-and-a-half-hour journey that carried us 12 miles off the north coast of Newfoundland. I’ve always yearned to see an iceberg, and yes, to even lick one.

Both desires were fulfilled that day.

What I didn’t expect was an existential spiritual awakening while circling a piece of ice.

“Awestruck” feels too small a word to describe the feeling as my soul brushed against that iceberg.

There was something absolutely otherworldly about it. At one point, the captain cut the engine, and we simply floated.

A collective hush fell over everyone on board as the iceberg began to sing.

I never knew icebergs made noise, but they do.

As the ocean breathes and moves beneath it, the berg itself cracks and rings, almost like church bells chiming across the water.

It was a symphony of cracking ice, lapping waves, and the cries of seabirds, punctuated at one point by the majestic spout of a whale.

For almost five solid minutes, I couldn’t even lift my camera.

I just stared, letting my soul soak up the majesty, the raw, undeniable beauty of this beautiful gift from nature.

I may identify as an optimistically agnostic humanist, but at my core, I am a Unitarian Universalist, and a mystic at heart.

This means I believe there are forces at play we can’t always explain or neatly categorize, unseen currents that pull us into deep connection — with a sacred place, with the raw, untamed beauty of nature, and with the interconnected web of all existence.

Our first Unitarian Universalist Source speaks to this: the “direct experience of that transcending mystery and wonder, affirmed in all cultures, which moves us to a renewal of the spirit and an openness to the forces which create and uphold life.”

This was that direct experience, embodied.

I felt one such powerful connection on the boat ride back to Twillingate.

I met a woman named Lisa on the boat that day, and our conversation immediately dove past the superficial, into the deep currents of what it means to be alive on this miraculous planet.

We spoke of the enduring mystery that cradles us, and the vital need to embrace awe as a form of holy gratitude to the vast, unfolding mystery that makes this place, and our very existence, so incredibly rich and fascinating.

As a UU, I often speak of our “free and responsible search for truth and meaning.” In that exchange, with the raw power of the iceberg still reverberating within us, we were actively engaged in that very search, our shared wonder serving as a bridge between souls.

We exchanged social media information, and later, she sent me a photo she’d taken at the iceberg: a candid shot of me, staring, unmoving, lost in that utterly raw and unashamed wonder.

She said it was that unchecked, authentic reaction that drew her to say hello.

There’s a profound lesson in this: when we are brave enough to live and react authentically with our world, when we allow ourselves to be fully present and vulnerable to the awe that surrounds us, we somehow give others the unspoken permission, the sacred freedom, to experience and express that raw emotion themselves.

This island, its resilient people, and the silent, singing giants of the sea have not only opened my heart but reinforced a truth central to my faith: that deep connection, like the song of that iceberg, invites us all into sacred wholeness.