A few days ago, we walked the beach on a cool, cloudy day. Moon jellies lay splattered about every fifty yards: flat, clear, mostly-harmless blobs in the sand.
Spring is approaching and the tides are bringing in spring things. Warm days lie ahead with increasing numbers of visitors appearing on the beach on weekends while weekdays remain quiet. Birds of prey are scooping up fish and field critters as the chills of winter fade and breeding season ramps up. Brown Pelicans are gathering again, drifting in from Central and South America to form ever-larger squadrons along our spit of land called Follet’s Island.
The wind is in its March wilding, blowing the house into shivers and rumbles. Day to day, the Texas coast simply can’t decide what season to express: Forties one day, eighties the next, sixties yet another.
Life feels upended.
Life is revealing its rough edges as harsh and unpredictable days often keep me from wandering the island while howling, ghostly nights keep me awake with the racing thoughts of my history, my future, and this precarious, ever-present grief.
Springtime. Beach houses. Dogs. New cars. Jewelry. None of these things patches a hole in a grieving heart or solves a personal problem. One simply feels a moment of appreciation of a new bauble, or a few months of joy in the glow of new adventures. In time, the newness becomes the reality of life the way it always was, and one returns to routine. The glow gives way to the same internal and external battles.
Certainly, the beauty of the beach and its inextricable partner, the sea, is as soothing as anything can be. Stand at the shore on any given day—be it a calm day with a shore break so gentle that the sand seems to whisper in surprise when a wave falls softly on it, or a raucous, red-flag washing machine before a squall hits—and one can find awe-inspiring peace.
Can. In theory.
Some days, clearing the mind and reaching over the water for that peace is like reaching across the sky to grasp the moon. Some days, life is upended and you are upended with it and all you can do is teeter at the water’s edge and listen to the whispers or the raucousness and hope to be set upright again.
On those days, I often don’t listen to the sea at all. I put in earbuds and listen instead to music made by landlocked humans. My mind’s eye sees things that aren’t in those restless waters: memories, dreams, and past and current hurts. Some would say that is one of the greater of my many flaws, that unwillingness to look away from pain. I am not letting the sea heal me as I should, but I am running from healing much as I have run from my faith in the last several years. In the end, I am little more than the jellyfish, lying on the beach, deflated and dying, having traded the healing music of the sea for the music of the unforgiving land.
That might just be okay for now. Processing only what I can process on this Moon Jelly tide might be all that should be required of me right now.
Last Updated on March 25, 2023 by Lee Ellis
Reblogged this on Scribbling by the Beach and commented:
I originally considered posting this blog entry to this nature blog. Imagery and tone is set by the Surfside Beach, Texas coast. However, the content and core intent is that of personal growth so the text resides in my personal blog.
This is a nature related comment, but I thought you might find it interesting. I was working on the back of a boat at Lakewood Yacht Club, on Clear Lake, a couple of weeks ago. I was on the swim platform, and when I looked into the water, there were rainbows all around. Eventually, I figured out that they were comb jellies: probably this one.
I called the Galveston Bay Foundation, and they said that, yes, from time to time they’re moved up to the lake by the tides, from the open ocean where they live. Here’s to rainbows of every sort, wherever we find them!
How lovely. I love comb jellies. Swimming in them is a trip. I would love to have seen these from that vantage point.