I have not surfed for several weeks. Aside from the size of the waves, beyond my ability, I might get clocked by a redwood tree.
Humboldt style driftwood is not for the faint of heart. As with almost everything else in this far Northern California blend of the sublime and the ferocious. This ought to segue into a long discussion about Beethoven, but I shall spare you.
Buster, the second dog love of my life (after childhood pal Brandy, named by my pastor father after his color, not as his porn name, no offense to Brandys everywhere as it is actually cool name), used to bring me beached trees, actual trees, dump them at my feet and say “you strong, capable woman shall now throw this tree and I will then fetch it for you.” Buster was bewildered by my declaration that I was not actually the princess warrior he was picturing.
A few weeks ago Miles (current dog love, bless his 13 year old heart of gold) and I were on a beach walk when a sudden storm blew up. The wind was scary in that “is this a freaking cyclone?’ Sort of way and it did not rain, rather it hailed ice stones that actually hurt. Being exposed on the beach, the first place I dove for with dog in arms was a great big log. We huddled there, still getting pelted but less fearful of being blown into oblivion when there was a fantastical lightning strike and beach-shaking thunder. Miles, who is cachectic and relatively hairless after a grumpy groomer decided he needed to be stripped naked, was shaking and we locked eyes for a second, maybe both thinking it had been a nice life…
I scooped him up again and scrambled up a dune and God seemed to have deus ex machinaed a hole covered by a bush right over the peak of the dune where we rode out the rest of the storm. When we could finally walk back to our car, me pretty much blue lipped frozen at this point, a sassy rainbow appeared. Nice one Mother Nature!
After storm
Today, as we walked among the wood drifted upon the beach, we managed to just miss the rain. January has been making up for our relatively dry winter. I was obsessed with the sky and the way the wind blew eddys of sand. Sneaker wave weather for sure so we hugged the cliff, always with an eye out for an escape route. Rip tides apparent. I miss being in the water, substituting the pool after long work days. Still healing but not the same.
Sky like a paint by number masterpiece, and the strong smell of cow dung. I kept checking my shoes but it was just the way the wind was blowing, exactly picking up the scent and spreading the news, or perhaps spreading the moos.
Diagnostically speaking, it’s been a good week. Just when the dysfunction and drama of modern medicine has me down, I remember the joy of noticing something with my eyeballs—not needing a fancy scan or a blood test—-just seeing the malady and knowing. It’s especially great when there is something that can be done to heal, to help. Pondering the way my brain works, I seem to have a knack for patterns. Reading music, reading EKGs and seeing/feeling/noticing a subtle sign on physical exam. Just don’t ask me to remember a name, a part of my brain woefully underdeveloped, or to remember all the brand names of the millions of medications now available for type 2 diabetes mellitus.
Though if you want to know my super secret memory device for this:
“Some guys are losers” =SGLT2 inhibitors (the -lozins)
“Good looking people surf”=GLP-1 agonist (the -tides)
Driftwood has been useful to humans over the ages, as a supply to build boats and other stuff. It has this lovely, twisty, water-polished surface that elevates it to almost-art. It isn’t unusual on our beaches to see driftwood forts, some elaborately designed. Driftwood is a place of refuge when surprised by a storm next to the not really all that Pacific Ocean.
And don’t even get me started on the magnificent fact that we are alive, all entangled in the wildness of a universe that produced Bach, the surfboard, Miles the dog, Miles Davis and the warm bath after the beach. Just at this very specific right now moment, things are ok.
