~ From my sketchbook writings, May 17th 2013 ~
Here is what I love about the sea, the Sound, the great swirl of salt and heaving life. Here is the outpouring, unlocking, loosening of the throat, the bone striping wind, the olfactory discord of decay and bloom, the bewitching mortality of it all.
I stand at the edge.
I can love her tender, I can rage tempestuous, I can gather her bits of stone and shell, I can throw them back with unnecessary force. She is not gentle, she is not kind. Do not be fooled by fairy tales and sweet song. But she is whole. Birth and life and death incarnat.
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Whenever I visit these so-called grey beaches of the northern pacific, all I see is color. The subtle layering of mountain ranges shrouded in a watery reflection of sky and sea, the luminosity of big leaf maples in juvenile foliage - a glow that only comes with the mist. The warm hues of slick driftwood, the iridescent flash of crows and the hot punch of red-winged blackbirds. And then of course, the stones.
If you but call out a color, say, Mustard! then suddenly they appear as speckled pockets of glowing chroma. Coral! and the beach comes alive with vermillion hues. Teal! and my hand becomes greedy, my thighs gritty with sand as I wipe down stone after stone.
I am the magpie.
I am the wandering gypsy with pockets full of treasure.
Whisper me a salty tale and I'll share with you my trove.
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