At the Shore in February

Here at Cannon Beach, the weather has turned, to show us another face of beauty.

As I watch the waves roll in, I am reminded of the Mary Oliver poem “I Go Down to the Shore.”

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall—

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.

Except I am not miserable.  But perhaps like Mary, I sometimes get too much into my head.  

In the 1970s, I served at sea for five years.  I learned to respect the waters.  They were busy, doing their work, and they were not interested in what I was doing.  It became evident that the seas didn’t care whether I was on them or under them — it made no difference to the sea.  It gives one perspective.  

And being here, watching and listening to the waters working, I am pulled once again to that realization.  More than the mountains, more than the forests, the great waters remind me that they have been here long before me and will be here long after.  I like that.