White foam marbled the flank of the wave…rich and fatty
The warmth of the water never ceases to astound me. Growing up in Northern California, the ocean was bone chilling, hostile, rocky and foreboding. This one is velvet, rich and supple, its danger in its quiet seduction, hoping that you are unaware of the grasping hands of the rip, caressing you tenderly away from shore before you even realize your fragile mortality.
Each time I struggle with the deep, hot sand at the end and when the dune summit is reached…I gaze so longingly one last moment as sad as if I know it will be my last.
“To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time.”
Travel is our opportunity to wade out from the rushing stream of daily life and lay down on the soft grass on the bank. Rest your head, close your eyes, let the sunlight filter red through your eyelids as the insects whir in the distance and the babble of the water fades to background noise.
I love the birth of small routines when away from home for a number of days. The walk from my hotel in Spain to get my daily morning coffee. The propping of my pillows each night in Mexico to sit and read and be able to gaze up and out upon the city spread below our epic windows. This week while at my Quaker yearly meeting in Greensboro, my favorite time of day has become skipping one session after lunch in order to have some time in quiet solitude. I can’t bear to spend the entirety of the day inside when the weather has been unexpectedly glorious–a rare reprieve from the oppressive tyranny of Southern summer is not to be ignored. The campus grounds are lush with green and shade and pleasing simply to gaze upon. I take brief walks down the college pathways–I’ve always enjoyed the atmosphere of campuses, the saturation of expectant knowledge, the vibrancy of the young souls gathered. Even when they are not physically present, I enjoy the aura that permeates.
My habit each day has been to squirrel away two cookies from the lunch buffet, grab a cup of sweet tea, and venture forth to seek a quiet corner to read, write, or stare into space while enjoying the creamy breeze. Today I lucked out with a vacant front porch on one of the residence halls. It is everything Southern: grand columns, a row of rocking chairs, a porch swing upon which I now recline. Yesterday it was full up with those chattering in conversation so I went on past in my preference for solitude. I took a rocking chair on a small plaza in front of the student library. After sitting a minute, I was charmed to discover that I could overhear through the nearby walls a piano practice session. We’ve been pleased to share the campus with a summer gathering of music students. As I later rose to leave, I lingered to eavesdrop a minute outside one of the windows.
The last day of a retreat is always bittersweet as the blissful balm of isolation from the cares of the world threatens its imminent removal. We were granted a bit of magic our final night as a handful of us gathered on a porch with a low fiddler serenading our quiet conversation. The trees hummed along with their life within; a peek of stars up above the leafy roof reminded me of what I miss by being a city-dweller. Long we lingered, reluctant to release the bonds of camaraderie.
It’s pure glory out. Just enough sun dappling us through the pines, just enough breeze to soothe, music just loud enough to not overwhelm, just enough company to be pleased yet not burdened, just enough bitter in the beer to savor the smooth.
Sunday in the South and all is well and fine and just enough.
I realized a life-long dream last week. How often do we get to utter those words?
I placed my hands upon stones laid down by a people so ancient that their name and what they called their city is lost to history. Making my way through what the Aztecs named Teotihuacan was a spiritual day for me as I walked the Avenue of the Dead and looked with awe at the Pyramids of the Sun and the Moon. My mind cannot fully process how old this is and what grandeur it used to encompass, so I focus on this: a real person held his paint and created this mural that somehow has survived. He was real. He lived. Now here I stand witnessing his artwork. How amazed he would be to know this. How honored I am to be this witness.
When I tell people that I’ve gone to Teotihuacan, they immediately, eagerly ask, “Did you go up the pyramids?” When I admit I did not, their faces fall and I feel dismissed and regarded as somehow having failed. Refuse this! Do not let other people dictate how you “should” travel. My travel is my personal journey and the expectations of others for my travel and my life do not warrant my regard. My panic at the steep climb and my companion’s foot injury precluded our ascent–and to force the issue on account of “expectations” of how we “should” experience the site would have been misguided.
Once we shed the forced ideas of others, we are then free to journey in a manner that fulfills our own needs and satisfies our own soul.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more…