I just heard Harry Belafonte singing this - slowly, prayerfully.
It made me cry;
and then, it made me hope.
Kind of like a psalm....a soulful expression that does not minimize human tragedy, violence, pain, sorrow, injustice, but.....it doesn't leave you there. While it stirs hope, incites a redemptive stance, it doesn't white-wash reality. It lets both stand, side by side - broken reality and redemptive hope. We get to choose how to align ourselves....each and every day; with each and every action. Both are true. Like the incarnation - God and man, occupying the same space.
"I heard the bells on Christmas day
their old familiar carols play;
and wild and sweet the words repeat
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"I thought, as now this day had come,
the belfries of all Christendom
had rung so long the unbroken song
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"And in despair I bowed my head.
There is no peace on earth, I said.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
of peace on earth goodwill to men.
"Then peeled the bells more loud and deep.
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.
The wrong shall fail; the right prevail
with peace on earth goodwill to men."
Hopeful Christmas to you all.
May we choose - purposefully; incarnationally.
Ring a redemptive bell.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A Jolly Holler-y Christmas
One of the definitions for schizophrenic is -
a state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements.
Do you have any idea how discordant Il Divo and Rascal Flatts are?
All of my household goods are stored in a POD - including my Christmas music. We all have those standard CDs we slip into the background as we decorate, wrap, bake....emotionally enfolding ourselves into the season with each jingle bell melody. By the end of the holiday we're sick to death of the little drummer boy and the twelve days of Christmas, but until we've reached that saturation point, we hum along merrily. It's part of the way we manage a gambit of yuletide minefields.
Because my Christmas music is unavailable, I'm depending on the radio, and there's always a station somewhere that plays non-stop Christmas music. The trouble with remote areas like the coast, is that what's available is static-y and limited......and in my case, country-western. I somehow didn't associate the coast (fishing industry, fishermen) with cowboys. I wouldn't have been surprised with, oh, I don't know, Burl Ives, Gordon Lightfoot oldies, Irish ditties.....but, country-western?
So, as I'm navigating this emotionally loaded season differently, I thought, why not? Why not Dolly, Reba, Sugarland, Brad Paisley, and Keith Urban? The standards are there in mega-supply, White Christmas, Frosty, O' Little Town of Bethlehem, and O Holy Night in twangy harmonious variations. Every once in a while, a little Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole is tossed in for merry measure. And while the holly-jollyness does create a festive atmosphere to set up a teeny weeny tree in the window seat, hang a stocking just for me thank you very much by my cozy fireplace, wrap presents (well, I stuff them now into decorative bags with all that sparkly tissue paper), and arrange displays of pine cone and greenery, I noticed something. I miss my music.
It's not that I'm anti-country-western. It's just there's so much about this season of my life, this season of the year, that's requiring a foreign experience. My traditions have collapsed upon themselves. Others who have been through this kind of transition have encouraged me to create new traditions for myself; and my country-western venture is a stab. But there's only so much of a Texas-swing arrangement of Deck the Halls that I can take. New, different, diverse is great.....but now and then, I just need a dose of familiar, to feel like Christmas.
So I drove up the coast to Fred Meyer in Warrenton and bought myself the Il Divo Christmas CD to kind of balance things out. Big, bold voices.....deeply textured orchestration.....arias that bust down the ceiling.....and after several listens in a row, I felt both satisfied and, irritated? I can't explain the conflict, other than to chalk it up to this crazy time in my life. But I definitely could only take so much of Il Divo. So, I'd turn the radio back on......and believe me, the shift from Panis Angelicus to grandma got run over by a reindeer was like being jerked from one reality to another in one swift yank. Kind of schizophrenic.
And you know....that's a pretty good definition for the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements reflecting my state. On the one hand (now picture Teviah in the Fiddler on the Roof), I want tradition; while on the other hand (Teviah again) "tradition" is changing. I want the traditional, family stuff of Christmas, and yet, I've intentionally isolated myself from my precious, wobbly, family structure to sort things out. I feel the edgy rawness of wanting, needing, both - what's been familiar, and what I must create anew. Everything is redefined; weirdly juxtaposed. What fits? What doesn't? I'm swung from the far edges of Ave Maria to Honky Tonk Christmas. Where's the mid-range in all this ripping back and forth?
........the other day, while sitting in Sweet Basil's, a little lunch spot in Cannon Beach, enjoying a robust cup of portabella/onion soup, I noticed the background Christmas music. Well, I didn't really notice it at first. What I noticed was that I was tapping my fingers, in a really involved way, and that made me notice the music. It was bluesy.....rhythm and blues Christmas music. And I thought....hmmmm....why not?
a state characterized by the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements.
Do you have any idea how discordant Il Divo and Rascal Flatts are?
All of my household goods are stored in a POD - including my Christmas music. We all have those standard CDs we slip into the background as we decorate, wrap, bake....emotionally enfolding ourselves into the season with each jingle bell melody. By the end of the holiday we're sick to death of the little drummer boy and the twelve days of Christmas, but until we've reached that saturation point, we hum along merrily. It's part of the way we manage a gambit of yuletide minefields.
Because my Christmas music is unavailable, I'm depending on the radio, and there's always a station somewhere that plays non-stop Christmas music. The trouble with remote areas like the coast, is that what's available is static-y and limited......and in my case, country-western. I somehow didn't associate the coast (fishing industry, fishermen) with cowboys. I wouldn't have been surprised with, oh, I don't know, Burl Ives, Gordon Lightfoot oldies, Irish ditties.....but, country-western?
So, as I'm navigating this emotionally loaded season differently, I thought, why not? Why not Dolly, Reba, Sugarland, Brad Paisley, and Keith Urban? The standards are there in mega-supply, White Christmas, Frosty, O' Little Town of Bethlehem, and O Holy Night in twangy harmonious variations. Every once in a while, a little Bing Crosby or Nat King Cole is tossed in for merry measure. And while the holly-jollyness does create a festive atmosphere to set up a teeny weeny tree in the window seat, hang a stocking just for me thank you very much by my cozy fireplace, wrap presents (well, I stuff them now into decorative bags with all that sparkly tissue paper), and arrange displays of pine cone and greenery, I noticed something. I miss my music.
It's not that I'm anti-country-western. It's just there's so much about this season of my life, this season of the year, that's requiring a foreign experience. My traditions have collapsed upon themselves. Others who have been through this kind of transition have encouraged me to create new traditions for myself; and my country-western venture is a stab. But there's only so much of a Texas-swing arrangement of Deck the Halls that I can take. New, different, diverse is great.....but now and then, I just need a dose of familiar, to feel like Christmas.
So I drove up the coast to Fred Meyer in Warrenton and bought myself the Il Divo Christmas CD to kind of balance things out. Big, bold voices.....deeply textured orchestration.....arias that bust down the ceiling.....and after several listens in a row, I felt both satisfied and, irritated? I can't explain the conflict, other than to chalk it up to this crazy time in my life. But I definitely could only take so much of Il Divo. So, I'd turn the radio back on......and believe me, the shift from Panis Angelicus to grandma got run over by a reindeer was like being jerked from one reality to another in one swift yank. Kind of schizophrenic.
And you know....that's a pretty good definition for the coexistence of contradictory or incompatible elements reflecting my state. On the one hand (now picture Teviah in the Fiddler on the Roof), I want tradition; while on the other hand (Teviah again) "tradition" is changing. I want the traditional, family stuff of Christmas, and yet, I've intentionally isolated myself from my precious, wobbly, family structure to sort things out. I feel the edgy rawness of wanting, needing, both - what's been familiar, and what I must create anew. Everything is redefined; weirdly juxtaposed. What fits? What doesn't? I'm swung from the far edges of Ave Maria to Honky Tonk Christmas. Where's the mid-range in all this ripping back and forth?
........the other day, while sitting in Sweet Basil's, a little lunch spot in Cannon Beach, enjoying a robust cup of portabella/onion soup, I noticed the background Christmas music. Well, I didn't really notice it at first. What I noticed was that I was tapping my fingers, in a really involved way, and that made me notice the music. It was bluesy.....rhythm and blues Christmas music. And I thought....hmmmm....why not?
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Oddities
I've noticed a couple of things, walking the beach......
Like, how when my face is totally relaxed, my lower lip hangs loose like an orangutan's. I had no idea it did this. I felt it drooping there the other day, keeping time with each step. Dangle, dangle, dangle. And I thought, good grief, when did that happen? What if I wore dentures? They'd plop right out of my mouth, drop to my feet and stare back at me wondering what the heck they're doing down there instead of up in my mouth. I'm wondering if this looseness has to do with all that collagen-loss magazines harp about regarding, you know, women my age? Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever think I would wonder about dentures, sloppy lips, or botox.
I've also noticed while walking ~
Dead things:
Cannon Beach has souvenir T-shirts with touristy slogans, one of which is, I walked Cannon Beach and Poked at Dead Things with a Stick. And there are dead things; all kinds of sea-life washed up with the tide, waiting to be prodded and examined. Most of what I've seen has been pre-assaulted by gulls. They tend to precisely poke out the eyeballs of fish, other gulls, seal, pelican, and various other bird-life I don't know how to identify yet. When I see these critters I can't help but to feel a kind of sober awww-that's-sad, moment. Except when it's a crow, and then I can't help but feel a kind of, yes!
Disgusting things:
I wonder how much dog poop is laying just below the sand surface? Cannon Beach loves dogs. It's a great place to let your best friend romp in sand and surf, and most dog owners carry their little blue baggies with them, scoop the poop, bag it, and dump it appropriately. But, there are other common methods I've observed as well. Like the, aw shucks, I forgot the baggie shoulder-slump, quick look around, dig a hole with your heel, push the pile in, bury it, and tamp it down method. It works. No one's the wiser; it's natural, and the tide is a good accomplice. And then every once in a while there are those proud little piles left right there on the sand.....waiting.
Other things:
A muck boot; a pair of men's briefs; a glass float from a fishing net. And tennis balls. Lots and lots of tennis balls in various stages of life. Remember, this is a dog lover's beach, and in particular, for dogs who live to fetch around the water. Some balls are still lemony, nappy, and bouncy. Others are soggy and grayish; and then there are those that look as if they've bobbed around the sea for ages, a thread-bare mushy mass of retrieving-memories.
But, circling back around to the kind of observation that startles me into the self-aging-upkeep-awareness thing ~
The oddest thing I thought I noticed while walking the beach was a boob. I could see from a distance, this geletaneous mass, protruding, nice and perky, looking exactly like a saline implant. Now, I knew there were bits and pieces of jellyfish strewn here and there, and I was pretty sure that's probably what it was. But, this was different. The other jelly masses flatly blobbed on the sand. This was perky. Shaped, well, it had that, you know, just right protrusion at the tip. And I thought, what in the world? How on earth could someone lose a breast implant? What kind of horrific impact or sea accident could cause such a thing to, pop out? And when I stooped down to examine it, there, just as perky and perfectly shaped as any C-cup boob could be, was a jellyfish blob perched on the top of the domed lid of a Slushy cup.
These are some of the oddities, the other kinds of things I notice and wonder about while walking the beach....what does that tell me?
Like, how when my face is totally relaxed, my lower lip hangs loose like an orangutan's. I had no idea it did this. I felt it drooping there the other day, keeping time with each step. Dangle, dangle, dangle. And I thought, good grief, when did that happen? What if I wore dentures? They'd plop right out of my mouth, drop to my feet and stare back at me wondering what the heck they're doing down there instead of up in my mouth. I'm wondering if this looseness has to do with all that collagen-loss magazines harp about regarding, you know, women my age? Never in my wildest thoughts did I ever think I would wonder about dentures, sloppy lips, or botox.
I've also noticed while walking ~
Dead things:
Cannon Beach has souvenir T-shirts with touristy slogans, one of which is, I walked Cannon Beach and Poked at Dead Things with a Stick. And there are dead things; all kinds of sea-life washed up with the tide, waiting to be prodded and examined. Most of what I've seen has been pre-assaulted by gulls. They tend to precisely poke out the eyeballs of fish, other gulls, seal, pelican, and various other bird-life I don't know how to identify yet. When I see these critters I can't help but to feel a kind of sober awww-that's-sad, moment. Except when it's a crow, and then I can't help but feel a kind of, yes!
Disgusting things:
I wonder how much dog poop is laying just below the sand surface? Cannon Beach loves dogs. It's a great place to let your best friend romp in sand and surf, and most dog owners carry their little blue baggies with them, scoop the poop, bag it, and dump it appropriately. But, there are other common methods I've observed as well. Like the, aw shucks, I forgot the baggie shoulder-slump, quick look around, dig a hole with your heel, push the pile in, bury it, and tamp it down method. It works. No one's the wiser; it's natural, and the tide is a good accomplice. And then every once in a while there are those proud little piles left right there on the sand.....waiting.
Other things:
A muck boot; a pair of men's briefs; a glass float from a fishing net. And tennis balls. Lots and lots of tennis balls in various stages of life. Remember, this is a dog lover's beach, and in particular, for dogs who live to fetch around the water. Some balls are still lemony, nappy, and bouncy. Others are soggy and grayish; and then there are those that look as if they've bobbed around the sea for ages, a thread-bare mushy mass of retrieving-memories.
But, circling back around to the kind of observation that startles me into the self-aging-upkeep-awareness thing ~
The oddest thing I thought I noticed while walking the beach was a boob. I could see from a distance, this geletaneous mass, protruding, nice and perky, looking exactly like a saline implant. Now, I knew there were bits and pieces of jellyfish strewn here and there, and I was pretty sure that's probably what it was. But, this was different. The other jelly masses flatly blobbed on the sand. This was perky. Shaped, well, it had that, you know, just right protrusion at the tip. And I thought, what in the world? How on earth could someone lose a breast implant? What kind of horrific impact or sea accident could cause such a thing to, pop out? And when I stooped down to examine it, there, just as perky and perfectly shaped as any C-cup boob could be, was a jellyfish blob perched on the top of the domed lid of a Slushy cup.
These are some of the oddities, the other kinds of things I notice and wonder about while walking the beach....what does that tell me?
Life Illuminated
Lord, have mercy.....I'm on sensory overload.
It's not very often, in Oregon, from sun-up to sun-set, for days in a row, to have spectacular light and clarity. I mean, this is the northwest. The land of low cloud ceilings, fog vapors hanging in shrouds, misty gray upon grey upon blah.
But winter on the coast is another matter. Though it is cold, temps in the 30's, I can see. For miles upon gorgeous miles, all the way to the horizon. No matter I have to layer about sixteen times, have all but my nose and cheeks exposed. The wind's minimal; the sky Montana-high; the water so sparkly that light jumps and jives wave upon wave; and the dark, volcanic ruggedness of Haystack juts out against deep turquoise, white foam crashing at it's base. The color has always been here - blues, whites, greens, blacks, but all tinted dim. Now though, the intense, low winter sun acts like a theater flood light. Everything pops - life illuminated.
I need times like these. A season to absorb. To let my eyes soak it and plaster it on the back of my brain like a mural for those days I know are ahead - the dull season. The season that drips and drones, and drains. The season where you have to remember what intensity is. Where you must trust there really is such a thing as, sha-zam!
So, I'm finding it hard to do anything else these days. I just stare. Sit and stare. Walk and stare. Find a tucked away warm dune, and flop and stare. Stare to the point where it seems my eyeballs just can't take any more. So by late afternoon I'll head back to my studio, putz around tidying, folding laundry, and then out my window I'll notice the sunset making ready - like an orchestra tuning up. It starts with a tease...a peachy glow, one long violin-like note bleeding into indigo. Then, building, a grandioso, the sun flames into hot tangerine, bursting rays of red-orange against deep purples, throbbing against it's reflection in surf and shimmering sand like deep pulsating cellos. And suddenly, a kettle drum explosion of gold bursts, sinks, and disappears into a wash of magenta....trembling, quivering, like the last viola.
And there I am, suspended, laundry in hand, staring out the window. Stunned by the music; the dance between light and dark. And I will remember. Life illuminated.
It's not very often, in Oregon, from sun-up to sun-set, for days in a row, to have spectacular light and clarity. I mean, this is the northwest. The land of low cloud ceilings, fog vapors hanging in shrouds, misty gray upon grey upon blah.
But winter on the coast is another matter. Though it is cold, temps in the 30's, I can see. For miles upon gorgeous miles, all the way to the horizon. No matter I have to layer about sixteen times, have all but my nose and cheeks exposed. The wind's minimal; the sky Montana-high; the water so sparkly that light jumps and jives wave upon wave; and the dark, volcanic ruggedness of Haystack juts out against deep turquoise, white foam crashing at it's base. The color has always been here - blues, whites, greens, blacks, but all tinted dim. Now though, the intense, low winter sun acts like a theater flood light. Everything pops - life illuminated.
I need times like these. A season to absorb. To let my eyes soak it and plaster it on the back of my brain like a mural for those days I know are ahead - the dull season. The season that drips and drones, and drains. The season where you have to remember what intensity is. Where you must trust there really is such a thing as, sha-zam!So, I'm finding it hard to do anything else these days. I just stare. Sit and stare. Walk and stare. Find a tucked away warm dune, and flop and stare. Stare to the point where it seems my eyeballs just can't take any more. So by late afternoon I'll head back to my studio, putz around tidying, folding laundry, and then out my window I'll notice the sunset making ready - like an orchestra tuning up. It starts with a tease...a peachy glow, one long violin-like note bleeding into indigo. Then, building, a grandioso, the sun flames into hot tangerine, bursting rays of red-orange against deep purples, throbbing against it's reflection in surf and shimmering sand like deep pulsating cellos. And suddenly, a kettle drum explosion of gold bursts, sinks, and disappears into a wash of magenta....trembling, quivering, like the last viola.
And there I am, suspended, laundry in hand, staring out the window. Stunned by the music; the dance between light and dark. And I will remember. Life illuminated.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Beach Comforts
There are two really good comforts while walking the beach. Let me amend that. There are three.
Peanut M&M's.
A good cry.
And a dog.
It was an M&M kind of walk a couple of days ago.....where I lolly-gagged, scavenged around the tidal debris, popping the nuggets into my mouth as I poked around, soaking in the sun, the sounds.....ruminating. An M&M moment is carefree and chocolaty.....simple, childlike pleasures. This morning I found the torn edge of the M&M packet in my pocket as I searched for a tissue. I didn't expect to need a tissue this morning as I started out. I didn't expect anything.....but the crying just came out of nowhere.
Well, maybe somewhere. Yesterday, in my not-a-care-in-the-world spontaneity I stopped by Mo's restaurant, spoke to the assistant manager, and applied for a cashier/hostess position. She called me back. I have a 2 p.m. appointment with her today. And I have a lot of odd feelings.
Yesterday, I felt really smug, delighted.....like, hey Carol, that's a courageous thing to do - you went for it, seized the moment, stepped outside the box, didn't over-think it, etc., etc......all those gazillion self-motivating cliches rah-rahhing me on. Why not? Maybe it can lead to something permanent. Something that eventually supports a chance to really live here, long term. Like, forever. Then you could get your 4WD, your dog, connect to the local life....have a life. Sounds really good. Do-able.
Then later, as I'm sitting on the couch watching the Beaver/Duck civil war game on TV (while unconsciously surfing animal shelter websites on my laptop in my dreamy dog-gooeyness), I all of a sudden feel, dumb. So, Carol.....this is what all that education and school loan payments are about? Sure, this beach life is peace-able, uncluttered, slow.....oh god, it's slow, like deep, gorgeous breaths.....it's simple, M&M simple. But, how in the world is this sustainable? A cashier/hostess? What about health care? What about job satisfaction? (Oh, this is hilarious, like I can afford to be picky.) What about, what about....? My mind's racing at bedtime - again.
So, as I'm walking the beach this morning, I settle back into the idea, gingerly. Just look around you, Carol. It's ridiculous not to try. Just try. You don't have to build a whole future out of one step. Just take one step. For today. It's only today. It's not forever......
.....and that's when I started to cry.
I want to know about forever, today.
Sometimes, I'm just tired of being courageous. Tired of trusting in the day by day. I want to get lost in those M&M moments, where I haven't a care, where I am a child; where I can play, be innocent. At first, I didn't want to let my tears go....I kept choking them back. Oh, you're just feeling sorry for yourself; in comparison to how some people are suffering, this is nothing. And then I remembered something I learned from the Life After Divorce group - don't minimize your legitimate confusion and pain by comparing it. So I let it rip. Like a frustrated, frightened, freaked out child, I cried. Nice big boo-hoos.
And when I looked up, there coming toward me, waddling in the way only they can, were three, low-slung, lop-eared, tail-wagging basset hounds. And they greeted me with big luscious dog kisses as I stooped to pet them; licking and grinning in all their squat, wiggy-waggyness. And as we parted, I noticed....
.....I felt really good.
Peanut M&M's.
A good cry.
And a dog.
It was an M&M kind of walk a couple of days ago.....where I lolly-gagged, scavenged around the tidal debris, popping the nuggets into my mouth as I poked around, soaking in the sun, the sounds.....ruminating. An M&M moment is carefree and chocolaty.....simple, childlike pleasures. This morning I found the torn edge of the M&M packet in my pocket as I searched for a tissue. I didn't expect to need a tissue this morning as I started out. I didn't expect anything.....but the crying just came out of nowhere.
Well, maybe somewhere. Yesterday, in my not-a-care-in-the-world spontaneity I stopped by Mo's restaurant, spoke to the assistant manager, and applied for a cashier/hostess position. She called me back. I have a 2 p.m. appointment with her today. And I have a lot of odd feelings.
Yesterday, I felt really smug, delighted.....like, hey Carol, that's a courageous thing to do - you went for it, seized the moment, stepped outside the box, didn't over-think it, etc., etc......all those gazillion self-motivating cliches rah-rahhing me on. Why not? Maybe it can lead to something permanent. Something that eventually supports a chance to really live here, long term. Like, forever. Then you could get your 4WD, your dog, connect to the local life....have a life. Sounds really good. Do-able.
Then later, as I'm sitting on the couch watching the Beaver/Duck civil war game on TV (while unconsciously surfing animal shelter websites on my laptop in my dreamy dog-gooeyness), I all of a sudden feel, dumb. So, Carol.....this is what all that education and school loan payments are about? Sure, this beach life is peace-able, uncluttered, slow.....oh god, it's slow, like deep, gorgeous breaths.....it's simple, M&M simple. But, how in the world is this sustainable? A cashier/hostess? What about health care? What about job satisfaction? (Oh, this is hilarious, like I can afford to be picky.) What about, what about....? My mind's racing at bedtime - again.
So, as I'm walking the beach this morning, I settle back into the idea, gingerly. Just look around you, Carol. It's ridiculous not to try. Just try. You don't have to build a whole future out of one step. Just take one step. For today. It's only today. It's not forever......
.....and that's when I started to cry.
I want to know about forever, today.
Sometimes, I'm just tired of being courageous. Tired of trusting in the day by day. I want to get lost in those M&M moments, where I haven't a care, where I am a child; where I can play, be innocent. At first, I didn't want to let my tears go....I kept choking them back. Oh, you're just feeling sorry for yourself; in comparison to how some people are suffering, this is nothing. And then I remembered something I learned from the Life After Divorce group - don't minimize your legitimate confusion and pain by comparing it. So I let it rip. Like a frustrated, frightened, freaked out child, I cried. Nice big boo-hoos.
And when I looked up, there coming toward me, waddling in the way only they can, were three, low-slung, lop-eared, tail-wagging basset hounds. And they greeted me with big luscious dog kisses as I stooped to pet them; licking and grinning in all their squat, wiggy-waggyness. And as we parted, I noticed....
.....I felt really good.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Stringing Shells
Today is one of those drop dead gorgeous coastal days.
Air crisp;
clarity all the way to the horizon;
the sea sparkling, shimmering with sunlight;
the sky solid blue without one wispy cloud to mar its canvas.
Takes your breath right out of your lungs.....and fills it with dreams.
On days like this, I stuff a quick breakfast into my mouth, put my weather gear on right over my p.j.'s and head out. Don't even brush my teeth. No makeup. Don't run a comb through my hair. Lord, it's liberating. Of course, I'm pretty well assured I'm not going to be chatting with anyone. But, even if I did, tough. This is what beach-bumming is all about. And I could do this.....I mean, do this. Like, forever. For a living. So, as I'm walking, beach-combing, shell-seeking, sea-gazing, I'm wondering....how can I make this happen?
And like any beach-inspired person surrounded by brilliance, all kinds of scenarios dart in and out, tumble through my brain as if, well, anything is possible. I imagine stumbling upon a couple of rare sea-washed doubloons, dimpled into the sand, teasing a New York Christie's auction scene, bidders frantic, guaranteeing my dream come true. I quickly dismiss any counter arguments of logic, like, when in the world would a Spanish fleet have sea-wrecked off the northwest coast of the American continent? Quiet, I tell myself....this is my dream. I can have it any way I want.
And then there's the thought that I'll apply for a counter job at Mariner Market in Cannon Beach, become such a valuable employee that I'll soon be managing shifts, and while networking with local merchants I bumble into a magnificent career opportunity as an events coordinator at the Hallmark, or hell, why not, the Stephanie. This is my show after all.
Of course, the topper is the HUGE grant I receive to start a non-profit, a coastal youth hostel, a place to shelter wayward youngsters running away, running to, something.....these kids have already left their mark; angst-ridden transients scraping messages on the tumbled down walls of a shanty barely clinging to the edge of a sea-cliff.....and I would prepare a safe place for them to come and go, and rest, and be listened to, and fed, and hugged, oh yes, deeply hugged by me - the little grandmother (with my hair in a bun)....(oh lord, that's too much).....with my hair in a pony tail....and connecting them to resources, and I'd be writing....oh, yes, can't forget that part...and writing in my little cottage (like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir) that sits adjacent to the hostel....or, maybe is a part of the hostel.....anyway....and writing, while I'm sheltering, and feeding, and listening, and hugging, and walking the beach (oh yes, with a dog).
Oh, I've got it all planned; the whole bit. That's what you do when you walk the beach, collecting shells and thoughts; stringing them together in the magnificence of hope....and a crisp, clear, brilliant sea-scape.
Air crisp;
clarity all the way to the horizon;
the sea sparkling, shimmering with sunlight;
the sky solid blue without one wispy cloud to mar its canvas.
Takes your breath right out of your lungs.....and fills it with dreams.
On days like this, I stuff a quick breakfast into my mouth, put my weather gear on right over my p.j.'s and head out. Don't even brush my teeth. No makeup. Don't run a comb through my hair. Lord, it's liberating. Of course, I'm pretty well assured I'm not going to be chatting with anyone. But, even if I did, tough. This is what beach-bumming is all about. And I could do this.....I mean, do this. Like, forever. For a living. So, as I'm walking, beach-combing, shell-seeking, sea-gazing, I'm wondering....how can I make this happen?
And like any beach-inspired person surrounded by brilliance, all kinds of scenarios dart in and out, tumble through my brain as if, well, anything is possible. I imagine stumbling upon a couple of rare sea-washed doubloons, dimpled into the sand, teasing a New York Christie's auction scene, bidders frantic, guaranteeing my dream come true. I quickly dismiss any counter arguments of logic, like, when in the world would a Spanish fleet have sea-wrecked off the northwest coast of the American continent? Quiet, I tell myself....this is my dream. I can have it any way I want.
And then there's the thought that I'll apply for a counter job at Mariner Market in Cannon Beach, become such a valuable employee that I'll soon be managing shifts, and while networking with local merchants I bumble into a magnificent career opportunity as an events coordinator at the Hallmark, or hell, why not, the Stephanie. This is my show after all.
Of course, the topper is the HUGE grant I receive to start a non-profit, a coastal youth hostel, a place to shelter wayward youngsters running away, running to, something.....these kids have already left their mark; angst-ridden transients scraping messages on the tumbled down walls of a shanty barely clinging to the edge of a sea-cliff.....and I would prepare a safe place for them to come and go, and rest, and be listened to, and fed, and hugged, oh yes, deeply hugged by me - the little grandmother (with my hair in a bun)....(oh lord, that's too much).....with my hair in a pony tail....and connecting them to resources, and I'd be writing....oh, yes, can't forget that part...and writing in my little cottage (like the one in The Ghost and Mrs. Muir) that sits adjacent to the hostel....or, maybe is a part of the hostel.....anyway....and writing, while I'm sheltering, and feeding, and listening, and hugging, and walking the beach (oh yes, with a dog).
Oh, I've got it all planned; the whole bit. That's what you do when you walk the beach, collecting shells and thoughts; stringing them together in the magnificence of hope....and a crisp, clear, brilliant sea-scape.
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