Stones of warmth

Wave after wave runs toward the shore, some being blown apart as they meet immovable rough, black rocks between them and the waiting sands, white tails of water spraying high, then breaking apart to join the water all around.

A few fishing boats, bright lights on the horizon, have come and gone. Fishers experience a way of life on deck that few of us can imagine, or cope with. I suspect it’s a bit like living constantly on the edge, anticipating the next crash of wave. The ocean is seldom calm here and the weather seems to change on a dime, or weather system driven from the west.  The fishing boats, if successful, will return to the harbours with any of these delights for eating: shrimp, crab, steelhead salmon, lingcod, rockfish, spring chinook, and bay and razor clams.

I continue to expect shells on the beach here but it seems few are to be found. I’ve actually found none I needed to tuck into my pocket which is unusual for me. I have managed to find a few rocks that called to me and those will find their way home to the many bowls of collected rocks that are scattered throughout the house. My ‘rocks’ were one of the first things I recall Rita commenting on so long ago. As soon as she realized they came with the package, that I couldn’t explain what it was that spoke to me from these various rocks, and that our home would always harbour treasure-rocks, she let it go. In fact, I believe one of the first ‘gifts’ I gave to her was a small pocket-sized stone with shell attached. Perfect for running through the thumb and index finger while one walked the beach, trails, or street. A pocket stone provides a meditative focus, as well as being a reminder of whatever we have attached to it.

stones  . . .

precious memories

caught in the polished

surface

holding reflection

fascinating in their

colour and lines

that shape

our hold

stones  . . .

holding our warmth

of hands

given in transformation

from beyond

our reach

connecting us

to earth

each other

to. . . stones.

No silence

rain pelted against
the glass of windows
holding at bay
the wind that whipped
up from the ocean,
screens rattled in tracks
pulled and pushed by
air seemingly unsure
of its direction or purpose,
the tide moved out
dragging gritty, black sand,
ivory and cobalt-blue shells
emptied of their owner
tumbled to chase the froth,
kelp and sticks tangled
in the swirl of dark liquid
all jockeying for position
in the undertow.
beyond the reach
or calming
of a smoothing hand,
this tempest raged
lashing at cliffs
cutting away at the base
taking and leaving
all in the same wave wash.
i waited
but the silence never came.

Rilke speaks to my heart

I beg you...
to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves 
as if they were locked rooms 
or books written in a very foreign language.
Don't search for the answers, 
which could not be given to you now, 
because you would not be able to live them. 
And the point is, 
to live everything.
Live the questions now.
Perhaps then, 
someday far in the future, 
you will gradually,
without even noticing it,
live your way into the answer.


Rainer Maria Rilke

rudder in the water

She called me rudderless

as she languished

on the banks

of the muddy stream

I was trying to navigate,

as if she could see

below the surface

where truth lay open

like a filleted fish,

she, tossing her head

in the spring breeze

hair flying

legs unmoving

rudder steady and still.

She was right,

of course,

about the rudderless-ness

of my time in the water

as the water carried me

from bank to bank

pools to falls,

ducking willow branches

trailing in the water

and stray fishing-lines

surely not intended

for me.

I thrust my right hand

into the water,

fingers tight together

fashioning a rudder

of my own,

my course straightening,

water behind me gone

the flow ahead yet to

disclose.

Photos and Info about Oregon

Check this link for some great Oregon photos:

http://ouroregoncoast.com/photos.html

Waves of Water and Pondering Ruth

Wow – here we are into mid-March, almost! The days slip by like leaves in a gentle stream, twisting this way and that, touching the bank for a moment, then sliding on, leaving only the slightest ripple in their wake.

The view out the bedroom window is awesome and calls my attention frequently. The waves are breaking over rough black rocks, cut by water and wind, tossed haphazardly along this part of the coast, as if dropped from a broken string-bag. They protect the coast from the continuous crash of water, as well as entry by boat. Both Native Peoples and European explorers would have had to have their wits about them trying to make land here. There is a large rock probably a ½ mile out from shore here (aren’t binoculars helpful?) with what looks to be a lighthouse; a helpful guide amid the ocean mists and rolling ocean.

We will do some exploration of Brookings today and some reading by the fire later. The weather has turned from sunny skies to misty rain – a bit more than a smir. We stopped in a thrift store yesterday in Crescent City and found books. 

The Song of Ruth (Frank G. Slaughter) was a great find for me and I started reading it last night. The 317-page novel consists of 3 ‘books’, each based on a verse of the biblical Book of Ruth. I know some in the GLBT community wonder why other GLBTs use readings from Ruth in their wedding vows, citing that it has nothing to do with same-sex relationship and is misused. I’ve often wondered why myself. Slaughter’s comments in his preface shed some (possible) light, suggesting some biblical authorities believe the Book of Ruth is fictional, written by a Hebrew writer about 500 B.C. “Its purpose was twofold: first, to place a foreigner in the ancestry of David, in this instance Ruth, broadening the appeal of the Israelite faith to others; and second, to teach a lesson of tolerance and love which might lessen racial antagonisms and intense nationalism”.

While I toss the word ‘tolerance’, which does not sit well with me, I consider the source and time (1953). Perhaps the Book of Ruth is really about crossing boundaries, following your heart, accepting differences, and drawing the circle wider, rather than adhering to man-made (intentional use of ‘man’) borders and rules.

California Cruising

Resting in northern California after 3 days of driving through amazing countryside. Desert landscape dry with  tan-coloured sands, sculpted dunes, and plants coming into bloom  gradually transformed into acres, and acres, and acres of farmland, some posted with brand-names familiar from my local grocery store in Wilson Creek. A few stops to purchase ripe strawberries, red with taste and freshness; a tasty summer treat 4 months early for our BC mouths. Then on to rolling hillsides of avocado trees, fields of artichokes, hundreds of workers, and sprinklers splashing the ever-important irrigation to the fields. Coffee enjoyed on a small, protected bay just north of Monterey, Lucy digging furiously in the sand for a rock-treasure. The California coast never fails to impress and is a fabulous drive. . . especially on sunny days.
California poppies in their bright colours, alongside daisy-like blooms, punctuate the greens and rusts of succulent plants that pattern the roadside. The rolling hills, especially near Santa Barbara, look like the Great Seamstress has thrown bolt after bolt of sage green suede, draping the hills in soft colour, a fold here and there darker as the material dips into valleys.

Our last night before tucking in to our rental in Brookings for a few weeks. It will be good to unpack the car, set up house, and wiggle the toes in the beach close to the house. If only Lucy knew what was awaiting her tomorrow . . . .

Rita is with me here, and then there, in this memory, and that recalled story. Always with me as I journey on.