Today: the sky a stunningly brilliant blue, the sun dazzling and still gentle with the winter white light that I love, even as I complain endlessly about the short days and long dark nights. James and I waited until low tide, late morning, and set out for a beach walk. Only two other cars were in the parking lot -- it was indeed cold, and no doubt many folks were sleepwalking through the day, still recuperating from New Year's Eve indulgences.
The wind was surprisingly meek after days of a lingering storm system. Quiet and peaceful. The sea, too, was calm, but remnants of very high tides and wild winds were everywhere. The wrack line of the last high tide was marked by great piles of logs and other broken tree parts as well as damaged lobster traps, all along the distant edge of the beach, almost as far away as the parking lot. The sandy stretch closer to the water was immaculate -- scoured clean by the squall and what must have been a dramatic pounding by an unusually high tide. I couldn't wait to walk along the wrack line, fascinated by the sheer strength of water to rip huge trees apart and fling them up the sandy bank. I lwandered slowly through the debris, took photographs of sculptural shapes of angular tree trunks and twisted branches, and pocketed a few special remnants of wood and unbroken shells that caught my eye.
From nowhere, I started thinking about my father, and how, when I was a kid, I looked forward to Saturday mornings, when he and I would go to the dump. We'd empty our large trash bin, and then ... we'd take our time getting back in the car; we always had to poke around a bit. My father often found old tools that only needed sharpening or a good cleaning. And I wandered, fascinated by what people threw out, looking for that one piece of treasure I could take home. More often then not, I'd chose a small jar or vase that would be lovely with wild flowers poked inside.
Today was so serenely lovely and the beach was so empty and peaceful; I started crying. I do think about my father often; he died almost 60 years ago, when I was still a teenager, but I still carry him close. Even so, I was surprised by the tears. Such beauty, on this brilliant morning. It was he who allowed me to become me, to poke around in the trash, to look carefully to find the beauty. Who saw who I was, and who I might become.
What a gorgeous piece. No better place to cry for loved ones than the beach.
What a beautiful way to write the new year in.