Is there a happier sight than a dog and a ball on a beach? A sexier view than a hot peach sun setting over a wet denim ocean? A silkier song than the hush and coo of waves whispered through the teeth of grassy dunes? Think monster crags that stand in the surf, and the herby, almost medicinal air of evergreens.
Or moss, the shag carpet of choice, bearding trees in minty around-the-clock shadow, mushrooms sticking out like fleshy warts.
This is the Oregon coast. It’s big, it’s beautiful, it’s bound to break your heart. Even as you’re standing right there with it, its lush green arms wrapped around you, the ghost of its looming absence is already haunting you.
Our favorite thing to do on the Oregon coast is ride our bikes on the beach. When the tide is out, the tire patterns on the hard damp sand make me smile, reminding me of old good friendships: the lines run side by side, then converge, cross, then join again. John, Z and I go for beach rides in the morning, the late afternoon, and even under the starry night sky. We chase the shiny edges of the ebb-and-flows, dodging jellyfish glittered up by the moon, our wheels making a soft “shluss” in the thin surf. John says, “Is this romantic enough for you?” I say, “It is.” Z feels it too, because as she comets by she sings she loves me even more than the ocean, and I’m guessing that’s a lot. Sigh.
Of course the thing we love most about Oregon is Lulu, who lives in Portland. Seeing her here – so independent, hardworking, and ever adventurous in the city and beyond …. blue eyes twinkling above her mask and body strong like a bull’s…. my heart just flops onto its back, holds its sides, and rocks with ache. It’s not a bad ache. More like a love sickness that can’t be quelled. Or a rip in the ol’ ticker, raw and swollen open from adoration…. a small tear that can’t be stitched, so it stays open, like a gill, letting all the big love seep in and out.
Meanwhile, Zelda turned 17. She’s sitting alone under a tree sketching, curled over a pad with pencil in her long graceful hand. And now the ache returns, this time to be that lucky paper, or perhaps the pencil, bent to the wise hand’s will. 17, with the aim of an arrow. Now she’s waking a napping Lu, cocooned and warm in her blue hammock, and I can hear them laughing in the Oregon sun. The sweet ache again. It twists and pulls like taffy in my belly…. so much sugar and a salted joy. It’s a heady swoon, like falling from something sky-high into something bottomless and true.
Today is Halloween, my favorite holiday of all. It’s fun giving nightmares their due; fun getting spooked by shadows and creepy things under a stark moon as the days trip ever closer towards winter. Of course much, much scarier things lurk around the globe these days, and they’re not so much fun. But this post is about love. And beauty. And as I sit here in a state park along the Pacific coast, where fires have dulled and the air cleared; where dogs grin, all wet-whipped from the waves; where strangers wave hello as they walk by, or from their morning-dewed tents, or lifting their noses from books they quietly read outside their motorhomes…. I’m less scared, and more hopeful. Less bitter; more inspired. Not empty, but hungry for more.
