Sea teaches patience and faith

There are few books that are timeless, speaking to your heart during all of life’s passages. For me, the short list is my Bible and “Gift from the Sea” by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

This book spoke to me as an adolescent; it sat on my carrel on the fourth floor of the Margaret Clapp Library at Wellesley College where I wrote my thesis; and it is just as meaningful today.

The wife of aviator Charles Lindbergh, the first man to cross the Atlantic in a solo flight in 1927, Anne Morrow Lindbergh raised five children, tragically losing her first son who was kidnapped and murdered in 1932. She was the first woman in America to earn a first-class glider pilot’s license in 1930, and to win the National Geographic Society’s Hubbard Medal in 1934. She also received the National Book Award in 1938 for the novel “Listen! The Wind” about her aviation and exploration adventures.

Published in 1955, “Gift from the Sea” is a personal series of essays that she wrote about her stay at a little cottage near the beach on Captiva Island on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

“The beach is not the place to work, to read, write or think,” she wrote in the first chapter. “Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit. … And then some morning …, the mind wakes, comes to life again. Not in a city sense – no – but beach-wise. It begins to drift, to play, to turn over in gentle careless rolls like those lazy waves on the beach. … The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach – waiting for a gift from the sea.”

A reporter and editor, I’ve spent much of my life in a newsroom, where I’ve been the first to know about every disaster and misfortune known to man. I remember in surreal detail the Tuesday morning 14 years ago when the terrorists hijacked the plane from Logan and took down the World Trade Center. I wrote a breaking news story that day interviewing a local man who had survived the attack on Pearl Harbor 60 years earlier.

Over the years, I developed a coping mechanism that helps me reconcile my life in the fast lane and all its grittiness. No matter the season, I drive to Fogland Beach. During the forty-minute drive, a shift occurs; and by the time I reach Fogland Road, I have left behind the struggles, sorrows and sufferings of my fellow man, finding sanctuary where peace is as palpable as the fog.

Away from work and home, I have no appointments, no laundry list of things to do, no reason to do anything but just be. In a world this beautiful, there is only sea, space and possibilities.

At the beach, I breathe in the salty air. It is here where Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s voice speaks to me, her prose ringing in my ears in rhythmic cadence to the crashing waves:

“When we start at the center of ourselves, we discover something worthwhile extending toward the periphery of the circle. We find again some of the joy in the now, some of the peace in the here, some of the love in me and thee which go to make up the kingdom of heaven on earth.”

Footsteps

Walking barefoot along a sandy beach is a sublime summertime pleasure, but I always wear shoes.

   

In nearby Cape Cod, the sand is as deep as three hundred feet in some places, but not on this rocky coastline that is my home.

Pebbled with sharp stones, shells and coarse sand, this beach path is navigated much more easily and comfortably with sneakers or beach shoes, colorfully-woven elastic footwear with rubber soles.

There’s an old Arabian proverb that states: “It’s not the road ahead that wears you out, it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.”

Rocks that are exposed to water and weather break down and create a blanket of sediment that covers the coastline, and the sediment becomes the impediment. Whether lodged in the shoe or clinging to the soles of the feet, those grains of sand will make the traveler footsore by journey’s end.

Curiously, shoes seem to turn up on beaches, half buried in the sand. On my walks I find one-of-a-kind sneakers from pretty pink toddler footwear to expensive Nike athletic shoes. These shoes wear out uniformly, not just on the soles. The tides drag them back and forth; they are pelted by rocks and sand, sun and rain.

Fishermen’s boots also occasionally wash up on this shore. Sea-green and seemingly impervious to the elements, these vinyl boots are weighted down with sand. Calf and over-the-knee boots are essential fishing gear, and I wonder how the fisherman let this one get away.

Was the boot washed overboard in a storm at sea? Did the fisherman tear the fabric on a sharp rock and toss the boot like trash fish? Has he yet to realize that one has gone missing?

I am reminded of a particular clam expedition to the estuary when I was a teenager. The clam digger rests on my boyfriend’s shoulder, and a tin pail swings over my arm. He slips on my father’s new brown beach shoes that my mother let him borrow and nervously paces while I locate the rest of the gear in the shed.

We stroll hand in hand to the creek. The tide is at its lowest. He takes off the shoes and begins raking the tool in the wet sand. Slowly, I begin filling the pail with supper. We lose track of time as we work but are forced to quit by the rising tide.

Staring in disbelief, we watch my father’s new beach shoes float gracefully out to sea.

There is a well-known spiritual poem about a dream, in which we are walking along a beach accompanied by the Lord. Sometimes we see only one set of footprints visible in the sand, leading us to believe that the Lord abandons us during times of trial. But the Lord assures us that it is during these times that He carries us.

Since childhood, I have walked countless miles along this beach in sun and fog, snow and rain, wearing sandals, flip-flops, beach shoes, sneakers, snow boots and occasionally, no shoes at all. But I have never walked alone.

The great gift of being alive

Sometimes I recognize myself in those hardy souls who board watercraft at the beach, because like them, I feel the need for speed.

When I was a young girl, I raced my bike down the steep hill where we lived, and in the wintertime, sled with equal velocity.

 

I remember the first time I flew on a plane and the adrenaline rush I felt when I hurled through space and ascended into the heavens. “Houston, we have ignition.”

After driving sensible, nondescript, used cars for most of my life, I bought a new blue Crossfire, a sports car with a powerful German engine. My friends and colleagues were amazed with my choice of a muscle car. I told them simply that this was the real me.

While I never break the sound barrier or the posted speed limit, I have no reservations about accelerating from zero to sixty in a heartbeat, then clicking on cruise control. I also enjoy hugging the curves in the road.

Consequently, I identify with my counterparts at Fogland who crave recreational life in the fast lane. They crank up their outboard motors and careen over open waters with a look of sheer delight on their faces. They fly like the wind into the wild blue yonder, hanging onto their sailboats and catamarans for dear life. They windsurf at breakneck speed.

While walking toward the salt marsh, I watched two men in wet suits approach the cove on their jet ski. Carrying equipment to shore, they prepared the chute for parasail waterskiing.

Returning to their jet ski, they sped to the center of the bay, pulling the airborne balloon behind them.

Then, one of the adventurers drove while the other waterskied. Back and forth they zigzagged across the Sakonnet River with the chute mapping their coordinates.

My heart was racing along with theirs.

Sitting on a stone at the shore, I also noticed a herring gull hovering overhead. New England’s most common seagull, the white bird with its silver back and wings floated gracefully, buoyed by its four-feet-ten-inch wingspan, then suddenly it dived headlong through the air and into the water.

It got me thinking.

While I spend time in prayer and meditation barely moving a muscle, I have an alter ego that yearns to propel me out of my comfort zone.  And when I acknowledge it, I feel the heart-pumping excitement of the great gift of being alive.

I like the phrase “contemplative in action.” The Rev. James Martin writes in “The Jesuit Guide to Almost Everything: A Spirituality for Real Life” that St. Ignatius, the founder of the Society of Jesus, counseled his followers that they were always to carve out time for prayer but were expected to live active lives as well.

“Most of us lead busy lives with little time for prayer and meditation. But by being aware of the world around us – in the midst of our activity – we can allow a contemplative stance to inform our actions,” writes Father Martin. “Instead of seeing the spiritual life as one that can exist only if it is enclosed by the walls of a monastery, Ignatius asks you to see the world as your monastery.”

The way to jump-start that awareness is to seek God in all things, even when you’re travelling at hyper speed.

The sounds of silence

This week I did the unthinkable. I unplugged from technology for five days.

During my last vacation, I found myself answering emails, making calls, looking for story ideas, scheduling appointments and writing. I knew that the only way to distance myself from my work would be to disconnect altogether. This vacation would be different.

My laptop lay lifeless on my desk, a shiny, black, unopened box, along with the cell phone silenced nearby.

With no email, Google, Facebook, Twitter and text messages at my fingertips, I literally dropped off the planet. I was unreachable.

Unable to respond to the stream of summons that sought me every minute of the day, I discovered a new kind of freedom.

“The noise of the world is preventing us from hearing the gentle voice within that always counsels us,” writes Matthew Kelly in “The Rhythm of Life.” “We will begin to hear this voice again only when we make a habit of withdrawing from the noise of the world and immersing ourselves in silence.”

The first thing I noticed was the absence of the sound of my own voice. There was no need to carry on ordinary conversation or to respond to something I didn’t want to think about.

Consequently, my thoughts turned inward; and my senses sharpened. I marveled at the sound of my own breath, the beat of my own heart.

One of my favorite biblical passages is when God told the prophet Elijah to go outside and stand on the mountain because He would be passing by. (1 Kings 19:11-12):

“A strong and heavy wind was rending the mountains and crushing rocks before the Lord – but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake – but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake there was fire – but the Lord was not in the fire. After the fire, there was a still small voice.”

Like Elijah, I listen, longing to recognize the presence of the Divine.

With a heightened sense of awareness, I walked the seashore. The wind urged me forward over the uneven, rounded stones that littered the beach at high tide, insisting that it had something to show me.

For a long time, I sat on a boulder and listened to the gentle lapping of the blue-grey sea as it rhythmically raked over the pebbles.

But the Lord was not in the waves.

I meandered through the salt marsh straining to hear the whisper of the sea grass yielding to the wind.

But the Lord was not in the breeze.

Outboard engines groaned in the bay, and a small plane puttered overhead.

But the Lord was not in the din.

A fisherman cast his line into the water, and the spinning reel whirred.

But the Lord was not in the cranking sound.

Trudging through the wet sand, I heard the crunch of broken shells underfoot.

But the Lord was not in the tinkling patter.

The cries of crows and gulls continued to interrupt my thoughts, and I grew tired of their squawking.

“Lord, where are you?” I asked in my silent prayer.

“Plug in,” said a still small voice.

Along came a spider...

Beach roses grow along the seashore near our summer house.

Sometimes I can time travel.

Whenever I sit under my favorite tree at the summer place, I am a child again.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time here, mostly reading, thinking and dreaming.

Consequently, I still yearn for solitude on weekend mornings, when I can give my imagination free rein.

So today when I pulled up a chair under that tree, I let my mind wander, expecting to revisit happy summer days. But instead of conjuring up fanciful things, I am fixated on the ugly wound just over my ankle on the inside of my left leg.

I love nature, and I write about God's handiwork in all its manifestations. I even have a healthy respect for insects. Whenever I find a bug inside my house or at work in my office, I carry it outside and give it a second chance.

Lately I have been rescuing lots of gypsy moths. My kids joke that I brake for ants.

A musician, I have performed with a 30-piece concert band for most of my adult life; and a month ago we played in an open grassy field at a beautiful complex.

It was the perfect venue: the sun was shining, a slight breeze blowing and an appreciative audience clapping.

However, midway through one piece, I felt something bite me near my ankle. I am a professional and kept right on playing, even though I am sure I winced.

When the number was over, I quickly changed music and continued with the performance like nothing happened. Frankly, I chalked it up to just another mosquito bite.

Fast forward a day later in the middle of night. I felt feverish, and the two puncture wounds burned and itched. All day I tried to put the sensation out of my mind, but my leg began to swell and the skin was red and on fire.

By the next morning the wound was gigantic and filled with fluid. I took a photo and texted it to my daughter, an eye doctor.

“U need to go to urgent care… that is severe inflammation,” she texted back. “U don’t want that stuff to get into ur body… People get paralyzed from spider venom.”

Ugh!

At urgent care, the doctor did a double take. He said the spider bite was rare and took out a syringe, draining the fluid and sending it to the lab to be tested for black widow and brown recluse.

I went home with a huge bandage wrapped around my leg; instructions for treating cellulitis, an infection of the skin and tissue beneath it; a healthy dose of antibiotic; and a warning to report to the Emergency Room if the conditioned worsened.

A week later I returned to my primary care doctor for a follow-up. “It will take months to heal,” she said.

So today I praise God for the warm sunshine, the gentle lapping of the waves in the distance, the seagulls circling overhead and the birds nesting in nearby branches – but not for the spider. 

Ouch!

New England seaside snowscapes in March: A Photo Essay

John Ruskin said, "There is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather. A Saturday morning ride to the summer house revealed a different kind of good New England weather in March, while the temperature hovered at 20 degrees.

Forget the flip flops, you'll need four-wheel drive to traverse this beach.

Our Boston whaler navigates a perfect storm, a sea of snow.

Fogland State Ramp is closed for boaters but open for skiers.

Horses at a nearby farm are home on the tundra.

Garlands of snow decorate Christmas trees in March.

Picnic, anyone?

The Creator's handiwork is etched in ice at the Sapowet Nature Preserve.

While the snow falls...

A view of our barn from the bedroom window.

How many times did I lament that I was just too busy?

Well, God was listening.

For the fourth day in two weeks, we were snowed in...

“It takes an open mind and a ready heart to appreciate winter in New England,” said Gladys Taber, who wrote from her seventeenth-century farmhouse in Connecticut. “The wind blows, the snow piles deep, the car gets stuck, and pipes freeze.”

The first snow day I carried on like I was still at the office. There were so many important tasks to tick off the list. I called staff, joined a webinar, studied a new website and researched my next writing assignment.

Switching gears, I spent the second snow day as the cleaning lady. I vacuumed, dusted, reorganized the linen closet, made a pot of Boston baked beans, rearranged drawers and cleaned out the refrigerator.

The third snow day I vacuumed and vacillated, logged into another webinar and dusted the house again, did our taxes and scrubbed the bathroom floor.

“Actually we need winter, even February, which can be the worst month of all in New England,” said Taber. “We need to tighten our belts and shovel the paths, thaw the pipes…, pile the logs on the fire. Subconsciously, I think we need the discipline of the long dark cold.”

But the fourth snow day I stopped in my tracks.

Gazing out the window, I watched snow sift down like flour, painting every surface sparkling white.

“There is a strangeness about a winter morning when the temperature is zero or below,” said Taber. “Day begins with a pale glimmer along the horizon beyond the lacings of the dark branches.”

I watched a wren tucked into our rhododendron bush, where she sought shelter from the snowfall. She looked straight at me, and our eyes locked.

“It’s okay to wait out the storm and just enjoy your surroundings,” she seemed to say.

I unplugged from my cell phone and laptop… I sat in silence for a long time with our little dog cuddled in my lap…  I heard a gaggle of wild turkeys in the woods... I put a pot roast in a cast iron pot and let it simmer... I listened to music... I began knitting a prayer shawl … I read “Sacred Fire” by Ron Rolheiser for hours…

It can stop snowing, Lord.  I finally got it.