Weaving

(Posted by Jennifer)

It’s all grey on this Tuesday morning train ride—even the greens are made of shades of grey. Sunday afternoon was as beautiful a day as I can imagine—Naomi wanted to go swimming! Today I’m in long johns and two layers of second-hand cashmere and thinking about layers of change.

Sunday, after I did some work to make up for all the work that didn’t get done while I was decorating that silly cake (and making the French toast and getting ready for the party generally), we went for a long walk on the beach. We went to what I now think of as CC’s end—and we peered at the house she is renting and wondered at a house with so many views of the sea that the most full-on front view is, er, the laundry room. (Naomi said, “WHAT are they thinking?”) The children dug in the sand and found treasures amongst the shell—green sea glass thick and round like river stones, pieces of paua polished in the waves until they looked like they had come from a jewelry store rather than the sea, and--the find of the day--a blue piece of sea glass so bright I had a hard time believing it wasn’t electric. Aidan revelled in his find, in the double joy of having something so objectively lovely and the bliss of having found something Naomi desperately wanted. When she offered to trade every piece of sea glass she had for that one blue piece, he smiled broadly and turned her down with unabashed joy.

In case the day and the sea and the sky weren’t enough, we also found this sculpture. K had told us about it long ago, a piece of public art standing proudly in a space that needs no human adornment. But this piece is brilliantly of the sea and wild—made of driftwood, hung with paua shells, rigged with tattered canvas sails. And it is distinctly human, the anchor blowing in the wind, as though the sailors were just looking for the best place to stay a while. It is both things. There are moments here when I feel so grounded and delighted to be here that I can hardly believe the joy of it—just now, passing a ewe cuddled with two lambs in a green field is one of those moments. And there are other times when my far-away ness is palpable—like now, when I know that at this exact moment, as I chug through the countryside in my sweaters and cold hands, nearly everyone I know will be celebrating the end of summer at some or another outdoor event on the other side of the world. And those moments are sometimes held—delightfully or painfully—apart, and sometimes woven together into the same tight cloth. Sunday, watching my children build sand castles, my husband throw a ball, my dog racing up and down the beach, was a tightly braided moment. How perfect this life is, how full, rich, to have every joy right here. And oh how Dad would love this driftwood boat. Oh how Jamie would love this beach, endless walking through endless beauty. My heart can ache from being too full and too empty at the same time.

After we stopped at the dairy (=general store) on the way home for tofu and onions to add to dinner, we made our way through the heaps of soggy driftwood on the beach. We sat on the rocks to watch the sun drop below the horizon, and to watch the spray on the waves turn pink in the reflection. The pulling forces of full and empty dissolved into a single cloth, because we are always aching for those things we cannot have, always surrounded by those things we can have. There is a kind of connection to all of humanity in that mixed urge, a connection to all that can never be because of the choices that give us all that we have. Now the rain has started in earnest, and this harbour, generally so smooth, has flying patterns of whitecaps. The grey of the day is lit by the gorse blooming now neon yellow on the hills. It is all woven into the pattern of the cloth, the monochrome grey and the vivid colour, the presence and absence of fullness. I’m not sure I have ever been so alive.