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.
