"The seas are the heart’s blood of the earth. Plucked up and kneaded by
the sun and the moon, the tides are systole and diastole of earth’s
veins. " Henry Beston
(I would like to live in an Outermost House…)
Other than maybe lucky numbers, I have trouble on the meditation plane. It’s possible I could have developed a skill for moving into the transcendental with the aid of drugs but I was too busy working and going to school when lots of my peers were working on this part of their development. I’m not saying I was too busy being a good do-bee; for all I know I might have liked spending a couple years lost in ethereal thought. I was just seriously busy. Then one part of life led to another and I had the children and so forth and so on so there was never much room in my lifestyle for drugs or leisurely self-contemplation. And when I was engaged in self-contemplation it was usually because I was trying to figure out how and why I had mucked up some major part of my life and it wasn’t all that much fun.
This is all by way of saying that the times I get to just drift quietly, lost in thought, minding my own inner tickings in peace and solitude are few and far between. Yesterday, while FG was in academic meetings, I drove the highway between Eugene and the Oregon Coast through heavy cedar forests cut into the mountain range. I love this kind of driving: the car was good, the roads were smooth and winding and hilly and I can drive at a good clip and still feel relaxed.
A while back I wrote a piece about my father and his inexplicable call to the sea. I said that it seems as if my daughter and I share that and yesterday was so clearly a case in point. Once out of the bustle of Eugene I just let my mind off it’s tether, without thought to departing children, aging parents, unfinished chores and the myriad host of concerns that are normally clogging up the works. In less than ten minutes all I knew- not in specific thought or feeling- was that pull towards the ocean. The river courses within view at times and then it is obscured by the highest wall of green.
I’m not going to try to put words to a day that didn’t really have words to begin with. Suffice it to say the time passed not by the clock but by the detail of each image and smell and sound. It was visited not by the osprey circling but the flight feather extended, not by the fish but the gold green flash of the spot on the gill and not by the clouds hanging over the hills but by the single ray of sun reflecting off the drop of mist on the needle of the cedar. And not far past there, the river meets the sea.