Travels with Scott, rainbows, puppies, butterflies, and nerdy LOTR allusions edition …. Well, I’m not SO far back from the dark-darkity-dark place I was occupying at the end of last week that I can countenance images of puppies and butterflies without adding a liberal dollop of Ye Olde Leonard Salt to keep the mix from becoming too saccharine. But it’s safe for the three of you actually subjecting yourself to my fustian flapdoodle to read this latest installment of Travels with Scott to read on without coming over all awkward and squeamish. I get it. When someone is depressed and starts whining about how tough life is, especially on Facebook, it’s a little like accidentally walking in on a friend using the toilet. You avert your eyes, beat a hasty retreat, and carry on like nothing ever happened. I’d apologize for embarrassing you, but you were forewarned some weeks back. And now, for something completely different… I am, unabashedly, a nerd. I’m particularly fond of Lord of the Rings (LOTR to my fellow nerds) and have read the trilogy at least 5 times and watched the excellent Peter Jackson movies based on them at least as often. Anyway, remember the Phial of Galadriel, the crystal teardrop containing the light of Eärendils star? Remember that lovely scene in the movie, Return of the King, when Frodo, under attack in Shelob’s lair, flashes back to his last moments in Lothlorien? Galadriel gives the Hobbit her blessing, saying the phial contains “the light of our most beloved star.” She kisses him on the forehead and says, “May it be a light for you, in dark places, when all other lights go out.” The contrast between Frodo’s horror at finding himself betrayed—and in the dark and lost and chased by a giant spider—and his recollection of the last time he felt safe—and at peace and surrounded by love and in the midst of reliable companions—is stark and painfully beautiful. Frodo, exhausted and facing an ugly death all alone, again finds courage and a sense of purpose when he remembers beauty, love, kindness, and the gift of a powerful woman. I find this scene particularly resonant these days. As it happens, I have a Galadriel in my life, a counselor and friend who has, time and again, reminded me that the world is full of love and beauty and help for pain. Yes, life can be hard. Yes, there are losses and blind people who, in their ignorance, inflict all kinds of damage on those around them. And, yes, we all are capable of being stupid and cruel, even to those we love. But the only help for these hard facts of life is to continue to work toward peace, balance, and to perform acts of love and kindness. Galadriel tells me the surest balm for heart-sickness is to get close to nature. She counsels me to take at least 20 minutes a day and spend it in nature alone. Get quiet, she says. Meditate. Take in what is beautiful and harmonious and peaceful. These things are also true about this world. Hear the lioness roar! So I’ve been running out to one beach or another to renew acquaintance with the Pacific and the natural world that, when I lived here, was such an important part of my life. Beach-walking is a lovely practice. A couple days in and my old love affair with the sea has been rekindled. I love the Pacific in all her weathers. On my first outing, the world lay monochrome and beautiful under the marine layer (a low-hanging cloud bank). It reminded me of the first time I ever saw the ocean. I was an Iowa boy of about 8 or 9. My parents flew us west for vacation and, after what seemed a month-long drive—though it couldn’t have been more than two hours from Portland, our initial stop—our car finally rolled into Newport, Oregon. And there was the Pacific, surging vast and mighty and gray under a slate sky! Dad taught me about tides that first day—very exciting stuff for a flat-land boy in love with adventure books, telescopes, chemistry sets, and all things in the untamed natural world! We stood on the line of foam and sea-wrack left by the most recent waves and watched the chilly water suck back and then leap toward us again and again. The tide was ebbing; and so we followed the receding surf, standing on new lines of foam and flotsam. We inspected shells and popped kelp bladders, the air sacs that float long strands of seaweed from the ocean floor to the sunlight above. We watched gulls and other seabirds hovering on the breeze like feathered kites. We did this for hours, dad answering all the questions an inquisitive Iowa boy could think to ask about sharks and whales and the other wonders of the sea. I remember him telling me that if we were really lucky, we might find a glass float that had broken free from a Japanese fisherman’s net and ridden the waves for years before reaching American shores. I’d seen these hand-blown treasures before. There had been a few displayed in the shops and restaurants overlooking the dunes and surf. I was a lucky boy back then, certain I’d find one of these treasures bobbing in the waves or hidden among the rocks. Today’s walk, 47 years later, along the flat hard sand between Moonstone Beach and Clam Beach was, like the Pacific herself, the same and yet not the same. Unlike that first cloudy Oregonian day, today was bright and mostly clear, the gray-green sea and golden beach sparkling under a warm spring sun. The steady roar of the surf, the sizzling of waves wasting themselves in mad assaults on the beach was the same as it ever was. The salty wind and tangles of kelp and sea lettuce dotting the beach seemed little different from the breeze and seaweed of 1960s Newport. Indeed, the rhythms of the surf, the maritime zephyrs, and detritus along the strand have changed little since long before there were people to enjoy them. Tonight, I rub a fine patina of salt from my calves and ankles. Outside, a half-moon and stars hang still and cold in the heavenly deep. The groaner anchored at the mouth of Humboldt Bay sounds its mournful warning to sailors of shallow water ahead. The distant roar of the rising and falling surf, some five miles away, invites me to return for another visit tomorrow. It truly is so terribly beautiful tonight. So still. So peaceful. Thank you, Galadriel. I hope we meet one day so we can share such moments together. In the meantime, I carry the light of your good counsel with me at all times and will use it to find my way when all other lights have gone out.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Jun 2014 07:46:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015