Elements

At the far end of Roaring Beach are sand stone and sedentary cliffs born in the oceans millions of years ago; now risen to offer shelter within caves carved by wind and waves.

A young child sits beneath an overhang. To her right are the remnants of an aboriginal charcoal midden of blackened shells exposed by recent storms. How old? The girl 12. The midden? 1,000 or 2,000 or 5,000 years of age? Without carbon dating, no one really knows.

This morning I download yesterday’s photos of the cave and on the computer screen there appear, next to this ancient midden, some mysterious white vertical shimmering lines that I was unaware of when standing in front with camera in hand.

Try as I might, they remain unfathomable to my rational mind.

Mary Oliver writes:

“There are in this world a lot of devils with wondrous
smiles. Also, many unruly angels.”

Flipping the image upside down, can you see, perhaps, the darkened face of the guardian?

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Life is easy, isn’t it, when it is sunny and the beach you walk along — have walked along for years — is soft underfoot with an endless stretch of golden sand. Roaring Beach was like that just over a week ago.

What happens, though, when the storms of life ravage your home and, where once was sand, is nothing now but stones that hurt underfoot? Roaring Beach is like this now. After several days of a relentless 25 foot swell, where once was sand is a kilometer long stone beach.

Like the spider who daily mends her web, how do you, I or anyone mend our wounds and continue to love despite losing everything; continue to wake up with a smile on our faces despite the losses.

I went down twice in as many days to survey the damage, the devastation and destruction done to the dunes and foreshore. Hard to fathom the forces behind what had happened.

But hold on.

Let me change the way I’m writing about this event. Instead of labeling it damaging and destructive, I should prefer to see it as simply a powerful display of nature that changed the face of Roaring Beach from what it was into something entirely different. Remain emotive, certainly, but replace fear of change with trusting beauty to be found and upheld, always.

I can view this like the prisoners who, when put into solitary confinement at the Port Arthur Penal Colony went insane, or, instead, like Buddhist monks who, when entering solitary confinement come out enlightened.

I write this because our human species is, without doubt, moving into a period of great change and for us to remain equanimous without giving into fear and despair will require an emotional intelligence capable of buoying us during this transition.

How shall we love when we are losing everything? is a question that needs serious consideration. Indeed, how will we manage to maintain an open heart that remains honest to the perils of our world yet finds joy, beauty and a plenitude of moments to cherish on a daily basis?

Walking along Roaring Beach now is rather exciting in its massive transformation. So many things to explore with all kinds of discoveries to be made: big boulders strewn around as though dropped in by helicopter, buried ancient mudstone ochre of several colours revealed for the first time in who knows how many years or centuries, the sandstone cliffs at the western end of the beach carved into new formations, the dolerite cliffs on the Windgrove side fractured as though with dynamite. Gosh, these and more. So much more.

Click here for larger image of this sandstone erratic

The dynamics of nature are surely beyond imaging. The thrill of this investigation has given me happiness.

And the sound. I have to tell you about the sound: that most wonderful sound of stones clanging against each other as waves wash over them all along the length of this now very long stone beach. It reminds me of what I wrote several years ago when a much smaller section of the beach made such a sound.

The Stones

I stopped and listened to the stones the other morning. There’s a section of beach where tidal currents and wave action have washed away the sand exposing a pile of rounded stones about the size of grapefruit. These aren’t spread out level, but incline to the deteriorating top edge of a sand dune. Normally, in my early morning run I would skirt this section, running a bit below it; moving gingerly yet quickly to the other side where the beach once again becomes flat and sandy.

However, during a higher king tide, a chance wave hit just as I was in the middle, carrying itself right to the top and causing me to scamper upward to keep my sneakers dry. When the wave rolled in it had the sound of most waves as they break foaming on the shore. But when it returned as a smooth backwash it rolled and knocked together all the stones beneath it. Such a wondrous sound. In squatted rapture I waited for several more of the larger waves to repeat this Balinese like clacking of instruments.

“Peal me again, again, again”, I heard the stones repeatedly ask of the water.

It was timeless this sound, as though the beach stones and waves had been rehearsing together for centuries. For a moment the necklace shape of the beach became Earth’s rosary and the beads were pressed just once for me. In that moment, I felt holy.

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Wild weather happening.

The winter solstice is two days away. Most people would prefer warmer, calmer summer weather. But even though the days are short and a cold wind brings in squalls of weather from low pressure systems in the Southern Ocean, a warm fire in a well built house is all that I require for a memorable engagement with the place I call home.

Earlier, while lying in bed a weak dawn light vainly tried to make visible the many sounds that came in the night; of wind and rain and snapping branches. The pantry door, itself, spoke of the intensity of the storm as it slammed open and shut because of the difference in air pressure sucking in and out of wall vents.

Later, I find myself sitting by the French Doors with a morning coffee watching what was unfolding. However, the thin pane of glass protecting me from the elements also acted like an invisible cloak of separation between the inner world of fireside comfort and the more visceral experience of what was really going on just beyond the overhanging porch roof.

In a moment of “who gives a fuck if the floor gets wet”, I open French doors towards frothing Roaring Beach. This allows me a ring side seat in a warm house while outside in the arena all manner of wind, flying debris, squalls and surging waves pummel everything. Now, this is nature at it’s powerful best.

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Darkness came early this late autumn day in May.

Click here to view bigger image

Mid-afternoon and there was not a breath of wind and all was quiet except for the rhythmic cadence of sound coming from the beach. Almost eerie.

Them wham.

But just before the “wham” struck, and while I was nestled in the house feeling cozy, neighbour Steve comes rushing in and says, “Quick, go check out the storm front coming across Storm Bay.”

Standing moments later (in my slippers) on a small bluff of land looking out towards the squall line, I could only feel a surge of positive energy well up in me as the ominous line of dark came steadily in the direction of my small self.

If I had been bigger, maybe the size of an angel, I might have tried to wrestle with one of those sinuous, long legged clouds.

Instead, I’ll just take the advice of Tagore and plant out this year’s garlic crop first thing in the morning.

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