If I Leave Here Tomorrow

Since living a good portion of my life down by the ocean now, I notice things which might have just passed me by in the past.  My world has expanded to include things such as tidal patterns, wave heights and seabirds.  Especially seabirds.  I watch as they return each year.  These giant, graceful angels of the sky weighing as much as eight pounds with wingspans of over seven feet.  I watch as they quietly make their way past my window, silently taking count of their flock sizes and then reporting back to my husband when we speak on the phone each afternoon.  On the day that I took these photos, there were more than sixty.  In groupings of two and seven and twelve, they drifted by majestically on the balmy breezes flapping their wings only occasionally, but mostly, floating.

They floated, and I thought to myself that that must be how angels move, demanding very little effort, yet with such a purposeful presence which only something of that magnitude and importance can truly behold.  And the sky was cerulean blue surrounding them with the most beautiful backdrop on which to come home.  I wonder.  What was the space in my mind which is now reserved for seabirds, something that was so totally off of my own radar, what was it filled with before?  In the clearing, what cobwebs resided there before I could see them? Count them?  Notice them?

And the angels, of which I have not yet concretely had the pleasure of seeing before, what is standing in their spot at this particular point in my life?  Knowing that I feel them, like the seabirds who were always there but not within my own personal realm,  I accept their presence yet even squinting my hardest, it is difficult for me to imagine what they might look like.

Yet then, I suddenly have a moment of recall.  Brave, little Jack at my beach house making me promise that he could come back again next year because he loved it there so much.  And I remembered that not all angels fly or float or soar.  Sometimes if we are very, very lucky, they appear into our lives without our even noticing who they are.  Suddenly, we are counting their numbers and recognizing their faces, looking into their eyes and kissing their cheeks.  Sometimes, their lives breeze by ours without our even knowing how it might have happened.  And almost effortlessly, like a seabird floating along on a breeze, we are forever welcoming them home.  Because where we are now, we can never possibly be in the future without forever searching for them, praying for them, recognizing them, without ever again, forgetting to welcome them home.

San Clemente in October

Last week, the skies were filled with a blazing, golden heat which should only be reserved for the dog days of mid-summer.  The sun bore down upon us and the temperatures reached record breaking numbers as we were left to wonder where the fall had gone.

One of my favorite little Hummingbirds began buzzing around me as if to command me to refill his feeder.(Which I promptly did!)  And then he thanked me by lapping up the cherry red nectar with a thirst that seemed insatiable.

The ocean was clear and warm and mild.  Light breezes toyed gently with the sails on the sailboats.  Fresh Kelp beds(the dark areas out in the distance) thrived as the algae spores rose upwards toward the sunshine.

The beaches became crowded, once again, with people seeking relief from the unbearable heat.  They explored the numerous tide-pools on the lazy, heat-infused, autumn afternoons, momentarily forgetting about school and pumpkins and Halloween costumes.

The sun glistened off the surface of a surfboard, as people sought shelter beneath the comfort of a sole umbrella.  Content to be by the water on this misplaced summer day in early October.

The sweltering heat felt like it would never subside.  It hung in the air.  It surrounded our bodies.  It was stifling and stagnant.

Until suddenly, it was not.  Change blew in and the skies began to fill with fluffy, ethereal puffs of white clouds.

The heatwave broke.  Windsocks, flags and palm tree branches began dancing on the balmy, beach breezes.  The rain storms which would take place during the next several days, once again misplaced, were beginning to form.

And once again, the flocks of giant Pelicans remembered that it was time to go home.  They took flight against the grey skies in large numbers, their silhouettes creating beautiful patterns against the darkening clouds.

And as I watched them flying overhead, I once again remembered that I, too, am searching for home.  A home within myself.  A home to which I can fly, even in the absence of wings.  A home that includes my husband and my four Angel Daughters regardless of season, place or time.  A home that encompasses everything I need and not so much of what I don't.

Prehistoric Angels

With all of the nuances of a nonevent, the seasons slowly change.  Tiny transformations barely noticeable. Overlapping. Inconspicuous.  Initially subtle.  I watched as pelican after pelican soared gracefully past my window, today.  Some in large flocks, creating linear shapes against the backdrop of the sky.  Others, singularly making their way along along the warm autumn air currents, wings spread as if their spans might reach from cloud to cloud.  Prehistoric looking angels heading south towards Mexico paying their last respects to the Southern California coast.  Another summer spent.  Another fall burning its way into a late California heat spell.  Another year into the autumn of my journey.

There is something about observing the way in which nature denotes the transformations of one season into another.  Intuitive.  Profound.  Exquisitely complex.  Internal clocks shifting until there is a new balance found.  From where we have been to where we are going.  A time to move from one place to another and then another.

And all along the way, we spend some time in each season.  Hopefully nurturing the present while anticipating the future and building upon the past.  Each season coming and going like a checkpoint along the journey of our life.  There is a flow to all of it.  A quintessential rhythm rounding out the seasons.  Winter.  Spring.  Summer.  Fall.  Winter.  Spring.  Summer.  Fall.

And just as the Pelicans make their way back down south each autumn, following the fibrous evanescent thread of instinct, we also journey our way through the sequential seasons of our lives.  Making our way through the translucent veil which segues the very subtle transformation of one season into another, into another.  Gossamer.  Gauzy.  Ethereal.  Our spirits open wide like the wings of a pelican making its way back to home.  Carrying all that has been, all that is, and all that will be.

Happy Autumn...