Gifts From The Sea

If it comes from the ocean, I give thanks unconditionally. Blood, guts, bleached bones, hungry gulls. It's not always pretty but it is always beautiful.

If I am not at the ocean and a gift of grace comes my way, I can only hope that some residue of the sea renders me worthy and humble enough to receive the gift.

My $10 Poem, written by Abigale Mott.

Inspired by pain,
it unexpectedly pokes at that pain by suggesting
these are questions I should,
perhaps,
be asking
of myself.
  It unexpectedly eases that pain by suggesting
 the answers lie
within.
In other words, 

attainable.

Thank you, Abigail.

Betrayal

My gut has thrown up

Questions - -

They run basic & deep:

"Why did you do this?"

"Why force this loss?"

I am unnerved,

regarding my emotions,

Trying to find a still,

quiet place

in myself - -

A warm, comforting

fire

where I am fine,

Where I can ease

the trouble of forgiving you.

Abigail Mott

Hood River, OR

11/10/13
Abigail Mott. 
A Place of Truth.

New Moon

This poem was inspired by Mary Oliver's powerful 'Strawberry Moon' in the collection "Twelve Moons"   It is stormy and violent and dark at the beach this weekend; outside as well. 

New Moon, All-Hallow's Eve, Samhain and Dia de Los Muertos blessings to you all.

New moon.

We must mark it.

Always.

If we don’t who will?

Delicate as a sliver of ice;

Sickly sharp even as it melts to nothing.

Do not be fooled by

The remains.

The remains of the moon.

The remains you thought you left behind.

Is it any wonder you burned us?

We who were not witches at all;

We who were a living breathing Holy testament to

Your utter unholiness.

Of course that’s what you had to do.

Fucking cowards.

And in that

We can find compassion.

But only the disinterested compassion of the hunter

Who can’t be bothered with such puny kill.

Our delicate sickly sharp sliverness . . .

Do not be fooled.

I Can't Not Write At the Beach

Recent beach musings. For Evisceral I used essentially the same prompts I used for this post. Wildly different poems, huh? Today a friend told me the only thing new under the sun is the infinite possibility of metaphor. I love that.

Evisceral

It was raining the night I awoke.
The night I knelt and sucked the silver-painted brine
stirred by shifting claws.
The night I stood naked
and opened my arms and body to the sharp cutting needles,
welcoming the evisceration to come -
the tearing open.
The night I heard the whispers of the ancestors
rise to a shrieking roar amidst the raging storm
imploring me to fling the heavy, suffocating blanket
protecting my womb-box of dried, shriveled memories
hidden away as the undead, cringing from sun.
The night I felt the terror of exposure -
scurrying, crab-like, for shelter that was no longer there.
Eventually stilling in hopeless exhaustion
and surrender to the pour.
And in the stilling,
began to swell with life again.

Ode To A Seagull

I don’t know how long the bird shit had been on the window.

Months.

Long enough to not see it anymore.

I looked around it and through it;

Over it and under it;

I had stopped seeing it.

Was oblivious to how it colored everything I saw.

Colored with bird shit.

Everything.

But yesterday I saw it.

I don’t know why.

Suddenly it was just there.

In the way.

I couldn’t see what I needed to see.

It was the work of sixty seconds,

A paper towel and some Windex.

And suddenly everything was clear.

No shit.

Addendum: The photo for Evisceral is one I found on Google.  The seagull photo I took myself while sharing a bagel with some very hungry seagulls. I will confess that while I was thrilled to have such contact with the gulls, Hitchcock's 'The Birds' was definitely in the back of my mind.

No Place For Sissies

I know the ocean is unforgiving. From day one of this blog I've contemplated and written about the evidence of the cycle of life and death that continually revolves in this place I love so much. But today I didn't just stumble on the sterile, bleached bones of it. I participated in the blood and guts of it.  I wish I had done better.

Reggie and I were out for an afternoon walk. He was doing his best mighty dog impersonation and I was occupied collecting trash. I looked up to see Reggie bouncing playfully around a small, dark duck. He'd jump towards it then dash away, only to circle back and downward-dog with his little butt raised in the air, begging the duck to play with him. It was clear the duck was injured.  His little wings splayed oddly and flying wasn't an option. It looked like he would be easy to catch. I debated about whether I should interfere or just let nature take its course.  At a minimum, I called Reggie off and carried him back to the house. 

I couldn't get the duck off my mind. I knew of the Wildlife Center of the North Coast in Astoria and called. They encouraged me to catch him if I could and bring him in. I grabbed a beach towel, prepared a holding box and headed back to the beach.  I couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes.

I looked where I had last seen the duck . . . no sign. I wandered in broadening circles, thinking to myself he couldn't possibly have gotten far. That's when I noticed two large crows occupied with something among the rocks about fifty feet away. With a sinking heart I walked over, knowing what I was going to find before I got there.  In the ten minutes it had taken me to make up my mind and act, the crows had killed the duck and ravaged his tiny carcass.

I know . . . It's nature. It’s the cycle. Survival of the fittest. Perhaps he’d been too injured for rehabilitation. It was undoubtedly a quick death.  I tell myself all those things. And I know there are many more pressing issues.

Still, tonight my heart is sad for that sweet little duck. For the record, his bones are resting in the earth. I hope peacefully.  Brachia matris revertaris in benevolum, little one.  

Addendum: April 5, 2014.  While walking the beach with a friend and Reggie, we spied another injured duck. This time I didn't hesitate.  I pulled off my raincoat and quickly threw it over the duck and captured him. We called the Wildlife Rescue hotline and discovered the Seaside Aquarium will hold injured animals until some one can retrieve them and we delivered him safely to their care.  I don't know the final outcome, but the crows didn't get this one for dinner!

A Pledge of My Own

The great 10-1-13 Government Shutdown. I am militantly apolitical but even I can’t avoid this news. So I did the most sensible thing I could think of and hopped on my bike to seek out community and fine coffee at the Seaside Coffee House.

I love my bike.

It is teal and rust (the real stuff, not the color) and, in spite of its gear shifters, only goes one speed. No spandex required with this baby. Hell, most of the time I don’t even wear a helmet. Its best feature is the iridescent purple and pink streamers with the flower pinwheels that really spin. I always smile when I ride my bike. Even when the government has shut down. Maybe even especially when the government has shut down.

So, I’m cruisin’ down the prom on my pimped out bike, feelin’ groovy, when I see him in the window of a yellow cottage I've rented in the past.  The 3-second clip as I ride by turns into a movie in my brain. I know the set. There's grungy, yellow-brown shag carpet, a ratty recliner and an antique lamp that no longer has it's expensive glass shade.  He’s maybe sixty, salt and pepper beard, blue bathrobe and he’s standing with his right hand over his heart as he looks out the ocean-front window.  My first thought is to hope he’s not having chest pain (will that nursing instinct ever leave?).  I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. I’m also pretty sure he’s not reciting the Pledge of Allegiance – at least not in the usual way. My guess is his heart can’t contain the magnificence of the beauty he’s beholding. He needs his right hand to help hold it in.

What would the world be like if we pledged allegiance, daily, to look at something beautiful every morning, find some small good to do, look someone in the eyes to the point of discomfort, say “Thank you” to whatever it is we are grateful for, strike up a conversation we might not have had?  Because in the end, government or not, apocalypse or not, those are the things that will be left standing. On my death bed, will I even think about the 10-1-13 government shutdown? Nope. Will I remember your eyes, Deanna-from-Palm-Springs-In-Seaside-For-The-Bridge-Tournament? Yep. That’s my pledge.

Isn't It Ironic

The Daily Astorian: PACIFIC and CLATSOP COUNTIES —  A high-wind watch has been upgraded to a high-wind warning, in effect from 8 a.m. to 11 p.m. Saturday for the south Washington and north and central Oregon coast . . .sustained winds of 30 to 40 mph, with gusts to 60 to 70 mph near beaches . . .

 . . . and this didn't even mention the rain. The kind of rain that pours right into your boots, rendering the waterproof part of the sales pitch just kind of cute.

I don't even know what time it was. I didn't want to know. Just barely light. That's what time it was. What I did want to know was the tide schedule and my best guess was less than an hour to high tide in the middle of a kick ass storm. Perfect.

The bull kelp is back; as is the feather boa kelp. And these worm-like things??  I picked up a handful of flat, smooth seaweed and the wind moved it in such a way that it  felt alive in my hand.  For as far as I could see it was just me, the seagulls and an awesome wrack line.

Then in the distance I saw a lone figure. Another soul drawn to the early morning beach under conditions forcing all the rest of Seaside to stay hunkered down inside. We were walking towards each other and the first thing I noticed was the bright orange, hooded rain jacket. And black pants. We were dressed exactly alike. Except he was barefoot while I was baptizing my no-longer waterproof boots in the sea. We just waved as we passed each other, but on the return we met halfway between the rocks and the water, complimented each other on our fine choices in rain wear and introduced ourselves. We exchanged mutual admiration of  the exceptional weather and I learned his name was Casey, he was from Utah, traveling with his wife and two small children and he teaches math. He wanted to  know if I was looking for anything in particular on the beach and I said, "Not really. Just whatever I find - or whatever finds me."  He nodded, there was a little more beach chat, we bowed in honor to each other and continued on our way. 

A few minutes later I was sitting in the Boneyard, having found a couple beach pea blossoms and a slug willing to eat them. I looked up in surprise to see Casey walking towards me. We said hi, again, and he asked what I had found. So I had to explain I liked feeding the slugs . . .  and he hardly batted an eyelash. Impressive. But then he really blew me away. "You said you were  looking for whatever you find - and you found me. So I came back to see if you needed anything".  Seriously? He was that wide open, honest and kind; no ulterior anything. Just human goodness.

Ok. I will admit I instantly flashed on Alanis' Ironic lyrics - "It's meeting the man of my dreams. And then meeting his beautiful wife." - but only for a moment.  The real take home was the pure pleasure of meeting a kindred spirit in my most sacred place who totally gets it.That's exactly what I needed to find this morning.  Sea magic indeed.

Slug Magic

It's back to the beach today. No stretching of the imagination required this time. 

If you read my Boneyard entry you might remember this:

My friendship with slugs started right there.
I know, I know . . . you gardeners out there hate them. I disliked them as well. About 20 years ago I did some gardening and while I don't specifically recall battling slugs, I do remember curiously pouring salt on one to see what would happen. Watching him squirm, in presumable anguish, was so awful I had to rinse him off with water. I don't know whether he survived, but I never repeated that form of slug control. 

Tomato hornworms were another story.
I collected them off my precious tomato plants, put them in a mason jar with the lid secured, set them in the sun and hung around to watch them convulse to death and explode.
I recently had the opportunity to save a sphinx moth.

In beautiful, poetic reversal he was trapped in a mason jar, from which I freed him. At the time I didn't know it was the moth that evolves from a hornworm - and I'm not entirely sure I would have picked honeysuckle and mixed sugar water nectar for him if I had. I am grateful to have made the tiniest dent in my vast, negative hornworm karma and will humbly accept any further assignments the Universe sees fit to send me.

But back to slugs. My morning rambles through the Boneyard have given me opportunity to observe and develop a quiet admiration for slugs. There were enormous numbers of them making their slimy way (did you know slugs produce TWO kinds of slime?) among the rocks, plants and sand. At times there were so many I had to gauge every step to avoid squishing them. If there was a mishap, I'd quickly apologize out loud, "Oh no! Sorry, dude." and then look around in hope no one heard me.  One morning I noticed a particularly large slug draped across a low growing plant I've come to know as beach pea (Lathyrus japonicus) I was intrigued and stopped to watch his progress. It turned out he wasn't going anywhere. He was eating breakfast. I knelt there on the ground for twenty minutes or so, watching him eat the delicate purple blossoms. When I leaned in close enough I could actually hear the crunch. Like a kid eating frosting off a cupcake, he ate only the blossoms, leaving all the green stuff behind.

This weekend I found myself wondering about the lifespan of slugs and how much longer I'd get to hang with them. I noticed the blossoms were mostly gone from the beach pea and, in general, Boneyard plants seemed to have peaked and were on the wane. Were the slugs still around? What would they be eating now? Do they bitch amongst themselves when they are reduced to eating the green stuff? Do they hibernate during winter or do they die? I have a lot to learn about slugs. But in the midst of my wandering wonderings I saw one fine specimen heading towards a blossomless clump of beach pea. There were no blossoms remotely near him and, feeling generous, I managed to find a handful of purple slug crack and returned - terrifying him into total retreat. I wonder what it was like for him to squinch up his optical tentacles and shrink up, expecting to die and then, when he didn't, open up to see a mountain of his favorite food.

By this time the sun was rising over the east hills of Seaside and, as it hit the Boneyard, generated what seemed to be a clear signal for all slugs to return to their hideouts. I stood by one huge fallen log and, without moving, counted 37 slugs all gliding determinedly towards it as if some invisible tractor beam was pulling them in. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . Must. Return. To. Log. . . . I was bummed I didn't have my camera and made a mental note to bring it next time.

Yesterday morning I was quite late getting out to the Boneyard and didn't expect to see any slugs at all.         I poked around a bit and was finally rewarded with this beauty:

AND I spied one last clump of beach pea blossoms.

In exchange for a little purpley sweetness, slug teaches me to keep moving, be content with slow progress, have patience, leave a trail, take things slowly and know when to retreat.
That's a pretty fair trade, buddy. 

Thank you.