The sea-chewed remnants of life lay littered on the beachy gums of the La Ventana bay. Toothed debris of wood and seaweed, bleached coral chunks and plastic mark the tidal line. Here lay tossed scattered skeletons of fish: spinal columns, skulls agape with sharp teeth, the leathery, empty sacks of fish skins, discarded vertebrae; the resting place for tenants of the Sea of Cortez, the emptying Aquarium of the World.
Always patrolling are the vultures, always keen for any carrion. Two politely take turns tugging inside a fish head. Two seagulls watch and snatch a lump when the vultures get bored and take to the wing, wind spilling them up to look-out posts. All along the beach, vultures swoop and glide, wobbling on hungry wingtips. Suddenly an osprey in the air, ducking a seagull trying to steal the wriggling fish in its left claw. It disappears, fish still squirming. A squadron of pelicans glide over the water, bellies touching down on gentle waves. They sit watching on the water with their huge bills lowered like mourners. A few frigates arrive, painting black patient lines with forked winds and split tails. These Pacific wanderers hang on the breeze with wings cut like kites, above endless waves, occasionally moving origami wings. Only on New Year’s Eve do I appreciate what the Buddhists say about the transient nature of life: the coming and going of everything, of events and experiences, of thoughts and feelings. We sit on a beach drinking margaritas and watching a sunset made for memories: the sinking sun colours rippled clouds from pale orange to crimson. A bonfire on the beach is lit and the primal summons of the flame licks the sky. People gather as the colours in the sky dim into disappearance. The fire on the beach grows as the fire in the sky slithers out. I suddenly see what a privilege it is to be alive, to be here on this day, to be on this beach with the lapping waves of water and sunlight. To not have the furious hunger of the seabirds, to not be fish bones drying on the sand.
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Only in my early middle-age years did I piece together the mystery of the jigsaw puzzle. As a child I never understood the attraction of spending hours slotting together pieces of a randomly divided picture to end up with a complete image that would then be broken up again. Why would mesmerized adults while away the precious hours? The older the adult, the more they liked puzzling.
Now I’m middle aged, the counter-intuitive has slowly revealed its secrets. Here is an activity that defies a crisis, that slows time, that delivers a slow-cooked triumph unlike few other activities. Here is a process that mirrors life itself except here you can be the true master, the divine force of creation and control, defining order from chaos. The chaos begins with the bang of opening the plastic bag and the spilling of all those elemental pieces that swirl around, discordant and disconnected. Then bring in energy and patience to sort out the particles: a pile for the edges and the rest can wait. Now the defining of the space, connecting corners so that the space takes shape and the real investment of time begins. Hours become days and weeks as you slowly sift the primeval soup and draw together crooked atoms to form elements, shapes, a sense of something grander. That triumph of a joining enough pieces to make a swirling ball of sense. Slowly bring order to chaos with the organization of pieces. Gravity of the edges creates a defined structure and space. You play at being a Biblical god forming something meaningful from darkness and clay. Each successful click is a step in the evolution of this matter towards complexity, something orderly emerging from the disorder: the life of the picture you are animating. So it unfolds, this puzzle of your life. So you devote time and concentration, and you build and create, you realize and revitalize. The truth: the puzzle is everything you have ever wanted to achieve, including the sense of completion and knowledge that complexity can withstand the chaos. You are the master. You are the maker. Now it is your choice how long to preserve and when to destroy. |
AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
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