Sweet start to summer, though it’s not necessarily pink, this bright disc in the portal of night easing itself along the southern horizon, warm, misty, welcoming.
Open the blinds: Let it spill its milk on the floor, pool and soak in, pearly and gleaming.
Step into that light— outside, if you can— and moonbathe a little.
Watch the trees, the roses, the dewing grass. the ripening strawberries soak in the champagne reflection of our nearest star.
You, too. Allow astonishment. A little more. There.
Let us see what the sea has delivered this day with a quick walk down the meadow path to the beach,
perhaps taking the sandy trail through the dunes, past the lemony lupine tossing fragrance at us as we pass, enticing us to stop and sniff,
then dig our heels into soft sand down hill to stand where sea meets land and survey what’s been washed and tumbled here—
moon jellies, lacy kelp strands, rubbery bulbs with tails, limpets and mussels beached after their journey from seafloor to shore.
We stand transfixed, as if our feet have not found their way here before, try to fill every crevice of empty with wavesound, hoping to carry it with us,
dripping through our fingers, to our inland lives, inhale the lifesource,
willing it to fill us, to sustain us, have faith that it will return us to the peace of this place one more time.
Overlooking Walk On Beach, The Sea Ranch / Jan Haag
for Pat Schneider on the 89th anniversary of her birth
So if I write a poem each day, that’s one kind of prayer, which I think you tried to show me long ago,
writing having become your spiritual practice, after decades on your knees, after years of serving churches and believers, after you no longer called yourself Christian, though you still adored Jesus—
you, pathfinder, waymaker, you who embraced multitudes.
Near the end you said that writing was one way the light gets in, that your hand on the yellow pad connected you to spirit, that washing dishes at the kitchen window, gazing down into the back yard was a holy act,
as you set out seed for birds hovering like angels, especially in winter, as you planted seedlings when the earth was warm enough to receive them,
as you sit with me now as the poems show up unbidden— or did I ask for them in some way I can’t recall?
And I feel you, deep in mystery, smiling as they appear, these gifts from the divine, dervishly spinning words on the page,
Be careful when you bend to smell the stalks of yellow lupine flourishing on the sandy path to the beach
industrious bumbles are at work here
you are intruding as they busily hover seeking the upright banner with the helpful spot at its base to direct pollinators to the nectar reward
as you inhale you catch a glimpse of a black-and-yellow striped worker close to your cheek
zeroing in on a particular floret the color of fresh butter
resist the startle
she does not mind your presence
just wait breathe listen
she will collect her prize in her pollen basket quickly wing her fuzzy way to another flower
leaving you to admire her gentle industry in this fleeting luminous season
•••
The western bumble bee (of the genus Bombus) wasonce common in western North America, but increasing temperatures, drought and pesticide use have contributed to a 57% decline in the occurrence of this species in its historical range, according to a 2023 U.S. Geological Survey-led study.
At low tide bejeweled anemone appear, nestle like olive green breasts between slick black rocks, tentacles tucked in tight,
the ample girls showing off their seabling—lacy coralline algae, once pink, now bleached white, random shell bits, washed rainbows of abalone, limpets like tiny volcanos, cobalt mussel pieces— artfully assembled mosaics decorating many sizes of fullness.
We think of some we know who’ve lost one or more, some who’ve decorated themselves with loving ink in place of what was taken.
We step carefully, bend to admire an anemone sporting a stylish turban shell jauntily perched on one side.
We marvel at the pale crab claw centered over its mouth, just where, on some of us, a nipple might have once been, an extra flourish of adornment,
a touch of originality bestowed by chance, swirling in on the next tide, to land gracefully in just the right spot.
Anemone in tidepools, The Sea Ranch, Sonoma coast / Dick Schmidt
She has washed ashore with dozens of her sea sisters, moon jellies with translucent bell bodies, tumbled with feathery kelp, along with blue-rimmed, tentacled disks sporting clear sails, hundreds of by-the-wind sailors.
Vellela vellela, the cosmopolitan, free-floating seafarers, sail across the ocean’s surface, while Aurelia labiata pulse beneath, complex blobs of jelly that head for shore near the ends of their lives.
Offering no resistance to tidal currents, flood tides beach them, which is where we find them on the first evening of our visit to the north coast, Aurelia and the Vellelas— the nautical girls and their sailor boy backup band.
We pick them up off the sand, set them on our palms, these mariners that, once under sail, have no way to navigate, that find themselves at the mercy of the winds.
We prop the moon jellies on our upraised fingers, study them in the light, marvel at their gelatinous bodies, now minus tentacles, all of these stranded marine invertebrates having seen better days at sea.
We imagine them in their rock star prime, prolific old salts that delivered only the mildest of stings. We walk with reverence through their sandy graveyard, think of them in their rowdy youth—the sailors and the jellies, oh, the music they must have made—and wish them a fond farewell.
Top: Vellela vellela, by-the-wind-sailor. Above: Aurelia labiata—moon jelly. At The Sea Ranch, Sonoma coast. (Photos / Dick Schmidt)
We call this Heebie-Jeebie Day, the day before we leave on a trip. He likes to say, “It’s easy—just throw things into the car. Not like we’re getting on a plane,” which requires more compression of stuff, of the too-much gear I tend to bring.
But heading for the coast, I never know (despite weather predictions) whether I’ll need the warm pullover and scarf and jacket or lightweight pants and T-shirts. We linger at the doorstep to summer, and the Northern California coast can plunge into a month of fog, or blaze with sunshine and tiny purple iris sprouting in every meadow.
We never know. Which is why packing for the journey is difficult, why I’ve amassed too much stuff in this lucky, lovely life, why I labor now to divest myself of much of the stuff—the rest of my life’s work.
Now I unpack, closet by closet, room by room, pile by pile of accumulated paper. Unhanger the professorial outfits, box the unremarkable books, shred, trash, scrap, eliminate, jettison, dispose of. Adios. Aloha.
This is the time of shedding.
Right after I pack a bag or four for the forthcoming sojourn, this pilgrim’s progress to the sea, remind myself to resist the temptation, as my feet traverse the Bluff Top trail and pummeled quartz sand, to pocket smooth stones and bits of shells, to fill my pockets with tiny treasures of this fleeting world.