Summer, after its fullness

Driving toward the beach entails taking a narrow road between two cultivated fields. Beyond them are the cows that graze at the edge of the dunes. And over the dunes is the sea. This morning there was a doe and two fawns helping themselves to what I think were carrot greens. It was the perfect start to my summer. Barefoot and in a light jacket, I jogged along the ebb and flow and sometimes through it. Purposefully running over the crushed shells to feel the rough massage on the soles of my feet. The beach was my own. And no, that is very much not true. There were several angry gulls. They came so close to my head I believe they must be brooding in the grasses, so I turned back earlier than planned, splashing in the water, scattering disinterested terns with their knife-like wings. On the largest islet, I could see the beautiful-frightening cormorants.

I turned off the Dalai Lama’s voice vibrating through my bones. I listened to the birds and the surf, the wind and my own breathing. And I cried a little. Grateful.

Walking back to the car I took a detour through the dunes to find the salt spray roses. It’s not difficult. If the wind is blowing your way, their sweet fragrance is almost nauseating. But a soft breeze—a soft breeze carries the most pleasing perfume.

The roses are in full bloom and I accidentally disturbed a fat bumble bee that I think may have been sleeping in the nectar. It was a bit too windy for the insects to be making spectacles of themselves. But I know the solitary mason wasps are hunting caterpillars in the dark spaces between the flowers, under the leaves.

While I was writing this morning a wasp came in the library and buzzed around my head a while. I took a few deep breaths and told myself that she wasn’t likely to bother me. Me, with my unsweetened tea and fennel seeds. It wasn’t long before she got bored of this little room, with the sound of my tapping on the keys, and she left. No need for anyone to dance around with an insect swatter mumbling expletives. I’ve done that.

I don’t know if there is any truth to the saying familiarity breeds contempt. I think that is only true when we want something from the other; we expect something we don’t get; when we see more than we anticipated, or more than we are comfortable with. Familiarity without expectation… I don’t know. Maybe it leads to curiosity. It puts fears in perspective.

The ocean is terrifying. And the cormorants, ghosts of drowned sailors, always pull my rising joy back to the earth. One hand clutching the roses, and the other grasping for the dark and darker blue of the north sea. There is a depth and a width and an understanding that makes an all-too-pure joy seem thin.

Warmly,
Ren