One balmy February
day, as I was walking through Oxbow Park along the Sandy River, I spied these
creatures on the beach ~ hundreds of cairns stacked with personality and possibility.
There was the plump, maternal cairn, and a priest gazing over his flock. Beyond him was the young family of three and
then, there was me, with the granite weight heavily balancing on top instead of
serving as a stable foundation.
I’ve always understood cairns to be trail markers or
memorials. Which were these? The beginning of a journey, or the end? As a
beginning, these cairns on the beach were a poor guide for me. There was no
clear path between, and I was overwhelmed by the multitude of directions. There
have been times in my life journey when I have been paralyzed by possibilities
and could not decide when, where, or how to begin. The only way to manage was
to sit in the middle, write, and wait until all options fell away or, as Rumi
said, until you “feel yourself being quietly drawn by the deeper pull of what
you truly love.”
This moment at the Sandy River marked a beginning of a new
relationship. I had been single for 12 years, free to walk wherever I chose, to
wait for as long as I chose. But now, I walked hand-in-hand, pulse to pulse,
with another. In awe of what we saw, I wondered, does she see what I see? New
love in our fifties is frightening ~ four feet sinking and squeaking in a sandy
foundation, while the solid stone stood still and silent in precarious towers.
Memorials of each of our pasts, guidance for the future, or just a bunch of
stones stacked by a bored beachcomber? And the river rushed cold toward its
ocean end.
