tree writing: a day on the coast

One evening during class, we were asked to stand around trees and observe.  Following the observation and our initial notes we were given the assignment to use the experience to write about an associated experience.  I reflected back to the trip the family made to the Coast this past Labor Day weekend.  Josh's cousins were visiting. We filled a van with people and canines and drove.  Then, we stopped.

With a swift pull, the wooden door flung open.  I pushed back the old aluminum screen door, being mindful to be gentle with the small squares of duct tape holding the screen to its frame. Coastal air and summers full of fun seeker have had their effect on the door.  It creaked open; I stepped out.  The long red planks were solid under my feet and light danced against the cottages cedar exterior.  I brushed a puddle from the seat of a green plastic deck chair.  I sat.  Following a deep sigh, I gathered the salty ocean air and held it for a moment.  It had been a long morning of packing, driving, and cooperation to reach this solitude.  There were still the scurries of preparation inside the house.  The baby's loud, argumentative cries filled the air for some time.  It was exhaustion that brought sleep to the second floor bedroom closet were she laid.  

I sat and surveyed this small corner no one else seemed to want.  A hedge of trees lined the property.  It's path fed to another path, spilling out at a sleepy street.  After a turn the ocean was a short walk.  I had never slept so near to the Pacific.  The roar of the surf could be heard even then.  It played like mood music or a constant wind.  It took me back to Grandma's house in the forest.  Her cedar-sided A-frame over looked a lake.  It was surrounded by a pine forest.  The sound of the wind through the tidy rows of a now over-grown former Christmas tree lot always reminded me of the ocean. 

Light danced through the ocean-side grove.  These were not the same pines of my childhood.  I did not recognize them.  The only familiarity was to associate them with photos from the West coast.  This was the West coast.  My Midwestern roots sat in awe of the variety.  The subtle swamps and marshes of the Southeast, where I spent early adulthood, were a stark contrast to the rocky cliffs of the Oregon coast.  

I needed that moment.  I needed to sit and soak in that space.  Never one for sand and surf, the trees were what called my soul.  I admired their lichen and moss coating.  Green grew thick over the branches.  There was so much life in that small stand of trees.  How peaceful it was to be a part of that still but steady growth.

 Atticus.

 Reuben.

 Reuben by the weather-worn wood.

 Eurydice when she woke from her nap.

 A girl and her dogs.  She found the chairs inviting as well.

The family had driven to an inlet to crab fish.  Rachel came back to gather Eury, myself, and the dogs.

 It was incredible drive as the sun poured over the trees, sand and sea.

 Evening fires were being lit in driftwood logs along the waters edge.

 Rachel, Reuben, Josh, Sam, Michelle and Ryan reel in for the evening.

That night we managed to pack five adults, two children, three dogs, all the crab-fishing gear and a wagon into the van.  It was a quite a feat.

 The catch of the day, post-steam.

We spent the next morning on the beach just down from the cottage.  The air was cool but the sun was warm.  It was beautiful.

 Stella, Eury and myself enjoying the sun.

 She is such an joy and I feel very lucky to be a part of her everyday.

 The little lady napping, ocean-side.

 Wandering back down the tree-lined path to the cottage.

Savoring a flower, plucked by her mother, she is a gentle (and sometimes screeching) reminder to soak in all the sweetness as it joins with the still but steady growth.