Above me it is beautiful.
Below me it is beautiful.
All around me it is beautiful.
Listen to the quiet power of beauty.
— Words from a Navajo prayer
I cannot have too much beauty in my life. From sea to shining sea, from Glacier National Park to the Grand Canyon, my America has loveliness beyond compare.
Henry David Thoreau advised us to live deeply rather than superficially. One of the joys of being human is the ability to store up memories. However, moving between the time zones of the present and past can prove to be a frustrating, poignant experience.
My internal videotape contains one of my most perfect days that occurred during a visit to Bill’s California relatives when Vicki was a girl. My niece, Dee Jones Peredo, and her first husband, Richard Costello, also lived in San Pedro. Dee was closer in age to me than my sisters and grew up near me. She and Richard took us to the ocean. We made our way down a steep, treacherous path to the shore where the waves swept in and out, leaving puddles in hollows in rocks.
Dee said, “These are tide pools. Watch and see what each wave brings in.” “Ohmygod!” Little sea creatures were deposited in the puddles: Here a sea urchin, there a starfish . . . “Look, Auntie! Here’s a tiny octopus!” Some puddles contained several shells of different colors and sizes whose critters were moving around. Those shells were inhabited by hermit crabs.
I think that hermit crabs are a miracle of nature. The great explorer, Thor Heyerdahl, wrote about then. To protect themselves from predators, they live in the vacant shell of other crustaceans, putting a claw over the opening. When it grows too large for its current residence a hermit crab measures itself against other shells until it finds one that suits and moves in.
My niece Barbara, also a Los Angeles area resident, arrived with sandwiches for lunch. She brought me the greatest of gifts — a book that I hadn’t read — a copy of Shogun that I reread and kept until it disintegrated. Wandering around the shore, taking joy from discovering and watching little creatures of the sea and being with beloved people coalesced into a realm of bliss.
A later visit with Bill’s sister and cousin was unsuccessful, perhaps because the water was too warm because of El Nino. Recently we were in California with Tom and Vicki who took me to a more accessible place. They went ahead to explore but had no success. I sat sadly on a rock under the broiling-hot sun, unable to make it to water’s edge. Waves of bittersweet memory and physical loss flooded my being. In my mind’s ear, I heard Dee saying, “Oh, look, Auntie, look!” She died suddenly almost a year ago.
A thirty-something Hispanic lady approached and said, “The sun is so hot. Would you like to have this umbrella that I found in the car I just bought?” “Thank you so much, but we’re leaving soon.” My gloomy mood was warmed by this stranger’s kindness.
According to one of Bill’s great-nephews, there are still tide pools, but the path to them has become increasingly difficult. I understand now that I shall never return to them and that I can’t relive that perfect day. The tide comes in, and the tide goes out . . . There is also an irrevocable tide in our lives . . .
Unlike the hermit crab, I cannot change my shell. However, I take hope and comfort from the words of the fine writer, Rachel Carson, in The Sea Around Us:
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature — the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.
This morning’s October dawn was lovely. wclarke@comcast.net