Sunday, June 04, 2006Wave fileSummertime.The sunbaked days. The migraine glare of the pavement and windshields during rush hour. The whiff of coolness in the evening. The ozone bursting out of the earth when the sprinklers hit the soil. Summertime is the cornerstone of the Southern California brand. What would Los Angeles be without images of tanned bodies and the breaking curls of waves? The glittering blue of the ocean is our backdrop, the Beach Boys are our soundtrack, the taste of the Southern California summer is salt, sweat and beer. And, if you're a local like me, working and living anywhere further inland than Culver City, you can probably go years without even seeing the Pacific Ocean. Years. Two weekends ago I went back. I packed up the wet suit, the boogie board, my iPod and a book, and went to the beach. I did this a lot the first summer I was single again. Then, as now, I had no man in my life and my weekends without the kids felt long and deeply healing. Every year that the weather heats up, I remember that summer. And this year, as I near my 50th birthday and feel ragged, spiritually and emotionally spent, I have been aching for the feel of that summer: working in the garden, thinking new thoughts, going to the beach in weekend pilgrimages. I've been missing that wise, contented, serene me of eight years ago. So I did it. In many ways it wasn't all that different from that summer of 1999. My wet suit still fit (thank you, Yoga House). I was feeling the same kind of contended loneliness that only comes from taking some time to consciously heal after an acknowledged pain. I was on that same track and was seeking, as I was then, to continue on the journey so I could become even more at ease within my own skin. There were differences, too. My car was squeaky clean and new that summer, now it's hit a painful midlife crisis, requiring supplemental servicing and feeling its first whiff of mortality. Eight years ago I didn't have a dog, a cell phone or a house to leave from. There were no such things as iPods. And I didn't have a box of books published with my name as the author in the trunk. Pretty significant differences. I made a place for myself and pulled on my wetsuit. There was a heatwave going on and immediately I was sweating inside it. I grabbed the board with images of The Endlass Summer in my head, and ran down to the water's edge. And then I remembered exactly what a dork I am and always have been. I touched the water and all but squealed. DAMNATION. That water was STILL COLD. It has ALWAYS felt cold and it always WILL feel cold. I inched into the cold water, sweating under my wet suit but still a wimpy little girl inside. As I moved forward micron by micron, I also realized that there are huge benefits to growing older: I simply didn't care any more. Yes, I was wearing a wet suit in 70 degree water and STILL moving forward with painful trepidation. Yes, I'm a middle-aged woman (no way around that word any more) with two kids. Yes, I was surrounded by tanned bodies that had never heard of BMI or cellulite (yeah RIGHT... but I was on a roll of self-denegration), and yet it was OK. I was still alone in that water, on that beach, and it was fine. Eventually, as I soon remembered, it does get warmer. And then it's glorious. I took my first wave and it all came back to me. Oh my god. In what other forum can you lose control, scream cursewords out loud, think you may die and skin your knees all at the same time??? Yes. It's JUST like THAT. BUT better. Why? No awkward conversations the next morning. No diseases. No dumping on either side. And best of all... no brain. At least not the brain that makes me crazy. No brain of the analyzing when he's going to call kind. No brain of the "gee I think he's into me more than I'm into him but he's the best of the batch currently in the running but isn't that kind of lacking in integrity?" kind. No brain. The brain is engaged in other things, mainly survival. The brain is analyzing things it simply doesn't usually have to worry about, like whether that wave is going to crush me into a pulp if I don't move forward or back. Like whether it's worth going under, trying to ride it, or try to jump it. Like counting the sets, figuring out the configuration of the sand bar, staring into the distance to see the literally unfathomable beauty of the blue of deep water. Suddenly: stillness. Body is alive, hair is matted and wet, brain is settled down, contented like a runner after a race. I only last an hour or two out there. I walk back to my towel with every nerve tingling. I know the sand that is caked on all of me and my belongings is going to be an issue, in the car, in the house. I also relish the feeling of totally not caring. Sand... no sand... whatever. Akuna matata. I must've been a surfer in a past life. Or an islander. I am able to so quickly find my most basic points of calm and inner peace when I'm doing this. Ridiculously simple, this whole notion of visiting the beach. Laughably basic, the idea of taking a piece of styrofoam and hanging onto it while you are pushed by a wave. But it goes so deep, this visit to the sea. It is an homage to the mother, the vast unconscious, a gesture of respect to things primitive and untamed. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 11:06 PM  
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