Mud & Bubbles: New

Being the first day of 2012, I woke up tired, yet somewhat giddy for the fresh wonders laid out before my family this year. Change is happening. As we process all these changes, grieving some, anticipating others, Aaron and I akin this transitional time we're experiencing to the play of a volleyball game.  First a pass with clutched fists to arch the ball to the next player, then a set which launches the ball for the final, precise move, the spike across the net. All of these little moves, these subtle changes in position and player align the ball for the score.  We're rolling with lots of little passes and set-ups, but the spike is coming.

On a whim, I suggested we got the ocean after church, and at first Aaron shook his head, furrowed his brows and shoved his hands in his pockets. He countered with an idea to visit the pizzaria we adored in the neighborhood we moved from last summer. Once we got there, we stared at the red CLOSED sign in their window. We all felt it then sitting in the car, the humming, lulling tidal and lunar pull of the ocean.

Seaside, Oregon is about an hour and a half drive. It's a typical little tourist town on the coast with hotels and timeshares crammed onto the sandy beach, the streets cluttered with curiosity shops, ice cream parlors, souvenir stands, and fish-n-chip cafes.  It's quaint and demure. Surreal.

We stopped at a little diner for lunch. AJ had a hot dog, R had the mac and cheese, Aaron had the bacon burger, and I, feeling nautical and nostalgic, had the fish and chips with clam chowder. It was a feast.   With bellies full and R's curls greased with cheesy sauce, we strolled along the walk past the shop windows bursting with antique decor, paintings of sunsets over the sea, or novelty t-shirts of marine life with Seaside, Oregon emblazoned on them.

It was surprisingly balmy for the first day of January, warmer than what we had left at home, and the sun was glowing above casting long warm shadows over the sidewalk. We carried R's stroller down the concrete steps from the road to the sand and the magnificent specter of the sea in the winter afternoon sunshine captivated us. AJ opened at a trot towards the shell and driftwood flotsam littered on the sand from high tide, and R in true baby turtle form burst out at a shocking waddle pace to the foaming, churning waves.

The ocean always conjures a deep poetry in me, and I know I'm not the first, nor am I alone in this. It's my favorite place in the world. I walked with R's chubby hand in mine, trying to contain his uninhibited ambition towards the water, and felt enchanted by the whole-body experience of being at the edge of the ocean as it stretches out towards the coast of Japan. The briny aroma in the heavy air, the calling of gulls swooping overhead, the crashing waves, the laughter of strangers around us carried on the breeze to our ears, the low pink clouds vieling the setting sun. I thought of my small family, such an island, yet a particle of breath that is cosmic and connected. Like the sea.

The ocean is eternal and yet temporary; at once beautiful and horrifying. It's both titillating and sedating. Holy and wicked. The paradoxical being of the ocean speaks to me because the same paradoxes exist in me. It felt especially true today, the New Year's Day 2012, with my entire world embodied in my five year old, nineteen month old, and my dear husband as our lives linked together undergo upheaval and adjustment, and we hold fast to one another facing the upcoming unknown with the most courage and hope we can muster.