At first, long before we can remember, we were tied to God in a way that was organic, essential, earthy. Perhaps each breath was a kind of prayer, or song, or rhythm, like rocking, like sea water, like blood entering the vena cava and pumping hard, consistently, through our wakefulness and into our sleep.
At first, we didn’t think of God at all.We only knew.
This last week, I hardly thought of God.
I whispered before the plane took off, simply pleading by habit, swaying slightly back and forth, barely moving into the repeat of “save-me” and “don’t-let-us-crash” words.I was mumbling to busy my head, as the awful thud of wheels clucked and we were airborne, my boys staring out the window, gravity bound and rising fast.
Hours pass white and sky-high. And then we land. The people head out; that’s all there is to do from an airport. They scatter like dry beans dropped on a tile floor – to their meetings, their partings, their disasters, and celebrations.They get in cars, on busses, on vans.My husband drives the rental car and I press my face against the window.There is no snow here.
I see washes of volunteer poppies – in orange bunches three feet across. They’ve pushed their way up between cracks in the asphalt and concrete at the bottom of the freeway on ramp.Each car accelerating swooshes them sideways like a wave, the air bending them low before they settle straight again, upright, resilient, unimaginable.
My children are quiet with home; this place we have landed in is one for them.
We head over the hill, deeper into the fog and salt of northern California.Neck-bend tall pine trees break every view, but rips of blue and silver flash between limbs.The sea is below and we know this as we wind down the other side.
Arrival. The kids whisk around the house looking for difference, for shift, and then, content with sameness, they tuck into 30 year old comic books and root beer.Spent with travel and sugar and height, they sleep hard that night.
Morning.We make our way down the path I have known all my life. We note the absence of each August flower, each hanging summer vine, each shade spot that has not yet grown deep in March.Early spring and all is different from what it was in late summer.
The kids find glee in this newness.Beach glass is everywhere and they collect it for the house bowls, race each other toward first-find of an unbroken sand dollar, search out black rocks with thin white lines circling all the way around. They fill pockets with findings, “Here,” they say and dump handfuls of stones, wet and dotted with grit, into any open palm, “Here.” And off they run toward the water. They move into it too deeply for early morning, long pants, no towels in sight.
The week was like this.We didn’t think of much of it, simply moved through it fast and collecting.I’ve decided it’s a way to pray.
At the bottom of the trail to the beach is a tiny blue cabin.It houses the beach museum and a store. It also has an aquarium with a shark – he’s seven months old this day.He lives, surrounded by tide rocks and anemones, brightly colored sea-weeds and shells.After peering at how much he has grown, we turn to leave and movement catches us.
It seems a crown of jewels is walking the tank bottom.Or perhaps it is a small fist of rings and light. The museum docent names it a decorator crab. It has adorned itself with fine red, blue, green rocks.Tiny pink sea anemones wave from its back.It is overdressed and beautiful, wearing its collection of treasures like a pretty lady with earrings too big. It moves along, collecting light and color. Here. Here.
At first, long before we can remember, we were tied to God in a way that was organic, essential, earthy. We didn’t think so much about it. We shone, and moved gently into each newness, collecting moments on our back, to look at later, “Here. Here. Save this.” Sometimes it’s good to just walk the prayer, play it out. Sometimes it’s good to think later.
