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No matter where I've been, I'm always thrilled to come back to California.
The airport shuttle drove up the Coast Highway. Over two hours in traffic is almost tolerable when you get to look out over the ocean at sunset.

It felt like I hadn't walked on the beach in ages.
The beauty of it is always new.

This Is My Ocean

And it's your ocean too. Whether or not you ever, in whole entire life, see it up close in person.

It's your ocean.

It's my ocean and when I'm away, I miss it. I miss it right now, sitting at my desk typing away under the picture of my ocean for a little time with it before I tear into Chapter 19 of my book.

I'd write by the ocean if it weren't so terribly impractical. Sand, wind, sunscreen, etc. Like those movie sex scenes on the beach. Sand. Wind. Sunscreen.

These days at home, I like to write facing the wall.

Monday Morning Beach Report: What color is your ocean?

I want to drink this color, stuff it into my ears, and bury my face in its perfume.

Saturday was gorgeous too.

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

The gods make soup. They bring it to a boil, skim off the foam, and touch the foam with their magic fingers. New creatures spring to life and race through their windy paradise.

Monday Morning Beach Report

Blue, gray, green, sliver--
the apparition of an island
while the water scallops the sand into
intersecting circles of wet shimmer
And the tide pulls back, pulls back. pulls back.

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

Ocean's foamy fingers
sift powdered sugar sand while

a pair of lovers
rest under a sky marked with kisses.

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

Back to blue. The wind has settled.
You could make bigger waves in your bathtub.
All day I thought what a perfect day to be out on a boat.
Still no response to my application to be a volunteer docent for the Channel Islands National Park.

Once upon a time I had a husband and young children.
We took a vacation to Cornwall and there was a church buried in the sand.
In this time before my beach life, I wondered how this could happen. Who/What/How would a church become buried in the sand?
This is not a church. It's a bathroom.
I understand now.
How the wind moves the sand and we get tired of putting it back.

The tide was out when I walked on the beach today. I could walk/swim a little to the breakwater, I thought. I love my impulsive urges and I'm glad that I act on fewer of them.

When I got home, the marina looked like a bathtub that someone had pulled the plug on. How deep is it, I wondered. What if someday, I looked out my window and saw the boats sitting on the ground?

I still pick up heart-shaped rocks and beach glass. The hearts are so numerous now they are stacked two and three deep. There is a tower of hearts in the center. . And today I found an orange piece of beach glass. Not amber. Orange. Orange is my favorite color.

Beach glass. Heart rocks. I find them lying at my feet. How lucky is that?

Monday Morning Beach Report: Hello El Nino, Hello Full Moon

The ocean is a gargantuan beast, its many mouths yawning tall with foamy tongues stretching farther and farther onto the sand. Not green or blue or silver or gray, all the churning has turned the beast brown. Life guard stations have been pulled from its reach, and where they once stood now lie what the beast has coughed onto the sand. Driftwood resembling half-devoured serpents. Tangles of twigs like flattened birds' nests, each with its own cache of plastic detritus, proving once more that we humans are the great sulliers of the universe. Green, red, blue, yellow. Bottle lids and their evil companion pull-tabs. Straws, strings with their flaccid balloons, pens, piñata leavings, Tic-Tac boxes, half shredded take-out containers. Tiny shards and nubbins of who-knows-what. The beast has regurgitated it all at our feet.

This Rocky Place: They Have Fire Pits Here

I've driven up the coast  a bit from my piece of paradise to this rocky place--a paradise all its own. Colder. Wilder. The motel I'm staying at with my friend Linda has fire pits. It sounds fabulous, but it's cold. For this morning's trip to Hearst Castle I wore two pairs of pants, a tank top, a long sleeve t-shirt, a turtleneck, a down vest, a wool coat, and two scarves.

Last week I was in Arizona with my son and his family. It was cold and rainy there for the most part and my attire was pretty much the same--minus one pair of pants. I am fixated on the weather. Or perhaps more accurately the climate/climate change and our California drought. The drive north to the central coast is spectacular. The ocean stretching out next to the 101 and then the curve inland where, normally, the hills and their soft curves would bring to mind the tawny coats of giant sleeping lions. This trip there was a pallor beneath the tawny hills. Lions undergoing chemo. What green there is in the shrubbery has a black undertone. The uber-elegant Hearst Castle has no running water; the parking lot is clustered with port-a-potties. How long before all of our southern California indoor plumbing takes a crap and port-a-potties are perched on our patios and porches,while hand sanitizer is preferred instead of soap and running water? Maybe El Nino will save us.

In the meantime, art is alive and well. This ancient Greek torso at Hearst Castle has survived centuries.

The elephant seals are still here.

And the sunset is no less remarkable.

Friday Morning Beach Report

 In one direction, the sky streaks of gray and blue, clouds like strands of raw wool unraveling above Anacapa.

In another direction, the clouds ripped apart, baring blue sky.

The waves looked as sturdy as semi-trucks this morning as two men stood on the sand, looking out to sea. They talked briefly, then turned and ran. Surfers, I'll bet. I couldn't stay long enough to confirm that they returned with their boards, but I'm grateful for the reminder to seize the moment.

Rising

Forest of saguaros. Random ocotillo in bloom. The desert bursts with surprises. For three days I stayed with friends on a mountaintop above Phoenix. At night, the city below laid out like a circuit board. The mornings full of birds that buzz or laugh—birds I’ve never before laid eyes on. From the patio I scan the landscape below and study the mountains behind the mountains behind the mountains behind the mountains. Surely, if I look west, the ocean is there somewhere. If I look east, the stubble of golden corn rolling across the Iowa hillside.  In a way, I see all of that. I see past and future. I see where I’ve been and where I’m going. 

I’m still traveling and my mom continues to do well at the nursing home in Iowa. She’s had a raft of visitors. I’ve had a raft of feelings, but mostly relief. Relief for me. Relief for her. While she lived with me, I often led my mom outside to look at the moon. The moonrise in the desert was spectacular last night. I saw it with friends as we drove down into town for dinner. Maybe the moonrise in Iowa was spectacular too. I don’t really know. There’s a lot I don’t know right now as I begin this new chapter of my life. But the future feels full and bright and beautiful.  

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

A cloud of sanderlings in flight.

A cloudless blue sky dropping into a band of fog. 

And unlike the past few mornings, a lone set of footprints following me on the sand.

While the new man in my life has gone back to Indiana to resume his role of caregiver for his father, the love and joy are still here--as wide and deep as the ocean.

Wednesday Morning Beach Report

Ghost boat.
And the pelicans on the jetty are still as statues.
Terns circle and cry but never commit to plunge for a fish.
Maybe there are no fish.
A single sea lions leaves the lazy dock life, undulating straight and fast for the harbor's mouth and
passes a couple perched on the rocks.
They are silent. Turned toward one another, heads hung low. For them the water, the birds, the boat, the sea lion do not exist.

Tuesday Beach Report

Gray-green water. The storm gathers itself.

One day you're standing on level ground, the next at the edge of a precipice.

Meanwhile, the flowers are drinking.

Monday Morning Beach Report

Yesterday's gray washed away, now

the clouds are like benevolent giants,

and curlews rule the sand.

I Am Queen of This Castle

Well. Maybe the surfers are. No, wait--the fisherman. Nope. The pelicans. Uh...never mind.

So. A Seahorse Walks into a Bar...

Beach goer art 

When I walked by this piece of driftwood stuck into the sand today, I re-called one of the spontaneous games that popped up with the grandchildren this past weekend. I suppose not every grandma would begin a game with young grandchildren that begins with someone or something walking into a bar, but the game was essentially word play which all three of my grandchildren enjoy.

So, a crab walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "Sorry. We don't serve crabs here." So the crab says, "Aw, c'mon, I won't be shellfish."

So, a fish walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "Sorry. We don't serve fish here." So the fish says, "What's the catch?"

So, a whale walks into a bar, and the bartender says, "Sorry. We don't serve whales here. So the whale says, "Hey, it's not a fluke that I'm here. I'm here on porpoise!"

So, a seahorse walks into a bar.....go ahead you finish it.

Yeah, grandchildren. We had "tea by the sea," which is the best excuse ever for eating lots of sweets with lunch.

We took a whale watching boat ride, but did not, unfortunately, find any whales. There were, however, bottle nose dolphins. The ocean was mindbogglingly blue.

Today there were clouds that looked like dollops of whipped cream. Beauty. Whether it's art or nature or grandchildren, I'm always amazed.

Monday Morning Beach Report

The ocean was brushed with silver this morning. Surfers and pelicans amazed each other with their feats of grace and skill.

As an added bonus, the local fire department water rescue squad was out drilling. With bright red shirts over their wetsuits and matching red helmets, they divided into drowning victims and rescuers. When the victims got quite far out beyond the huge waves and began waving their arms, the rescuers skipped into the surf with flippers in one hand and a life belt on a rope in the other. Once they were knee deep in the water, they put on their flippers and stroked like crazy to the victims who were then belted and towed to safety. It was heartening to know these guys practice these skills.

And meanwhile, some of those clouds looked like they might be making big plans.

Blessings to all those in the east coast blizzard.

Thursday Evening Beach Report

My friend Ellen, visiting from L.A.

We watched the sun set behind Santa Cruz Island

The willers watched it too.

And for some reason, this photo of Dan appeared with the other photos that I selected from my iPhoto for this post. I uploaded this picture of him about six weeks ago when we were putting together a slide show for his memorial. I didn't choose it for this post, but here it is.