Instead of spending another 30 minutes in front of a page––I set a timer to go off every 30 minutes in order to make myself get up from my chair and stretch or walk up and down the stairs a couple of times––I decided to go for a walk.
Most days when I am here, at the end of the day I go for a walk on the beach, north, to the jetty and back. It is around a 40 minute walk, long enough to feel a shift in my mind and body, long enough to take in my surroundings.
Last week, I ventured out on on a cold California day with a strong wind that disoriented hundreds of seagulls and pushed up against the crashing waves. The beach was empty, except for a person with what looked like all her belongings, taking shelter underneath a boarded-up lifeguard station, and a few people walking close to the water as the sun was setting through the thin fog on the invisible horizon. I came upon a dead gull; its wing like an elbow stuck out of the wet sand. The other seagulls didn't seem to notice and each went about their business making their way through the wind. I thought of Chekov's play, "The Seagull," I thought of oil spills that killed sea life, I thought of what the dead bird might represent if it were a symbol. The sun had disappeared and twilight emanated a dark, barely violet light. The flecks of people scattered on the beach were distant shadows as I pulled up my hood turned toward the parking lot.
But today the beach is a different landscape. The receding tide has left millions of tiny seashells, pools of water, islands of sand, rocks and shells softened by time and sunlight. Today the wind is a welcomed warmth on my skin, and the seagulls, like myself, are bathing in it. My imagination and memory are ignited in a myriad of ways. But what struck me the most is this image I was able to capture:
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