From the Edges

Thie earliest version of this essay is from June 2007.

“Writing is more than living…it is being conscious of living.”

-- Anne Morrow Lindbergh 

Yesterday, I finally got the tides right. The result was a harvest of green seaglass and pebbles.

Of course, I couldn’t resist picking up other colors as well, but green is my current passion. When you’re walking along the tideline at a beach, head down, examining the gifts from the sea*, there’s much to choose from. 

I was lost in the moment, thinking of the elegant simplicity of the writing style of the small band of American literary environmentalists whose work in the 1950s introduced me to the principles of ecology. Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Rachel Carson, John Storer.

Those writers also knew the unique pleasure of strolling along the beach just at the edge of the continent, seeking treasures. You can’t be too greedy about it; the sea will give you what it pleases, when it pleases.

But persistence has its rewards. I was so engrossed in my search that I barely took note of the others around me -- several people and dogs. At one point, approaching a rock outcropping that one can breach only at low tide, I noticed an oddity -- a beach patrol jeep drove past me, up to that spot, then hung a U-turn and started back. I waved to the driver, who then stopped and lowered his window.

“We’re looking for a lost Chihuahua mix, about 15 pounds, black, black collar, no tags,” he explained. “Since I can’t drive any further due to that rock so will you keep an eye out?”

“Sure,” I answered.

I rounded the outcrop and continued southward along Ocean Beach. It was windy and the waves were impressive — surfers were paddling out to the highest breakers offshore. 

Soon, I was into good seaglass territory -- it often appears in clusters, similarly sized to the pebbles and shell fragments surrounding it. In these banks of natural (and man-made) detritus from the sea is written a history of the relentless combined power of currents, sand, sun, and waves, grinding all things into softened, polished fragments of their former selves.

Like what life does to us. 

p.s. I didn’t find the dog.

Endnote: “Gift from the Sea” is the title of one of Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s books.

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