Heaven and Earth

I think that there is a little slice of heaven here on earth for all of us. It's a different place for everyone, all your own, discovered or revealed to each in different ways. It might be a park bench or a mountaintop or a kitchen table, but whatever it is, I hope that everyone finds their own place like that. I know I've found mine and it's called Point Reyes. Point Reyes is a triangular chunk of land that, on a map, appears as if it is being torn off the coast of California by the great San Andreas Fault. It's so other-worldly and beautiful that it seems that the entire weight of a continent can't hold on to it. I think of the word cleave. In one sense, cleave means to separate, to split, but in another sense, cleave may also mean to cling. I think of fingers futilely entwined--in someone's hands, in a handful of fabric of the clothing of someone who can not stay. It's a sad word, a pulling in opposite directions. It is the way the sound of a mournful song sounds beautiful, and the particular way beauty can be mournful. Maybe beauty is a form of mourning, loving that thing that is transient, fleeting, moving away.

But lucky for me, since I am a mere mortal, plate tectonics and geology are slow forces, and that bit of land I love so much will take several millennia to finally rip away and float off into the ocean, lost to the continent but born anew as an island, surrounded by vast black water that glints blindingly in the sun, a lonely place visited only by sea-birds and the occasional seal. The submerged lighthouse will exist only as a trick of light and shadow beneath the crashing waves. The roads that once criss-crossed her soft belly will be faint scars visible only from above, so that, in the slanted sunlight of an afternoon, the sky will caress and trace those faint lines on the naked flesh of the land and ask, how?, and the land may reply, distracted, her eyes looking off in the distance from where she came, Oh that? I couldn't say, it happened so long ago I can't even remember.Saturday morning we awoke early. We dressed in layers to be peeled off one by one and put back on again at the whimsy of the sun. I packed a few simple things I could find in my kitchen: a packet of crackers, cheese, a long forgotten apple that I sliced into quarter moons, a bag of trail mix. Along with dear friend Coke, we got in my car and headed off, out of the city, over the Richmond Bridge, through the small towns that dot the way to the coast.

At Point Reyes, most people stop at the visitor center, a big red barn staffed by people who love what they do. They have a little gift shop that I find completely irresistible. Yes, if heaven had a gift shop, you wouldn't be able to resist either: art prints, guidebooks, patches, bandannas, histories--all on the topic that interested you most. We stopped mainly to get a map, but I couldn't resist a slim volume on the common wildflowers of the area. With our trusty map in hand, we set off, down the road, left at the intersection, another left a little ways further. Our destination: Limantour Beach. If you want to continue with the triangle metaphor, then the base of Point Reyes lies along California's coast, tilts down a bit at a jaunty angle, and the apex reaches out into the Pacific, acrobatically balancing the famed lighthouse on its chin. Limantour lies on the southern side of the triangle. You drive through a brief forest of pine trees. At this time of year the trees were putting out their candles of new growth--one long finger sprouting up, surrounded by a couple of shorter fingers on either side. Coke said all the trees looked like they were flipping us the bird. A whole forest of them.
Limantour beach is a wide swath of sand lapped by the sea and naked save for tufts of grass in the dunes that line the shore. It was a bright day, but the air was cool, and a strong breeze blew in from the sea. Grains of sand hopped and danced, the grasses leaned, reaching and reaching, and whitecaps appeared here and there in the distance. We headed down the beach, the sand making a funny squeaking sound as we walked on it. We stopped to look at the washed up things, the shells of crabs, a glint of half-buried color. Every once in a while the wind would kick up and sting our hands and faces and try to steal our scarves away. Coke ducked into the dunes and found us a nice little spot, protected from the wind, bathed in light. It was like our own little room, grass for walls, heaven for a ceiling.

And it was heavenly, truly. The noon sun ran its fingers through the water, lighting it up all shades of blue and green. We saw something very large and very black rise up and disappear beneath the waves, twice. High above the clouds drifted lazily by, sometimes obscuring the sun long enough to reconsider a sweater that had already been shed, but not quite. We sat for a long time, enjoying the light and the ease. We breathed in the air, watched the shadows of the birds soar across the sand.

After a while, we remembered that we had left our picnic in the car, and our thoughts turned to where we should explore next and how long it would take to get there. I told Coke I didn't want to ever leave, was ready to leave my entire life behind and begin anew right there on the beach. But our bellies betray the best of our intentions, and we returned to the car where we sat in the warmth and devoured our picnic as the wind rattled and shook the car and tossed the seagulls skyward. We pulled the map out again, and I half-heartedly suggested a couple places. Part of me felt that since we had made it all the way out here that we ought to see as much as we could. Point Reyes has so much to offer, so many places to explore, but there was a tugging in my heart that wanted to stay. I suggested as much, and after little deliberation, we decided that staying would be just as nice as going somewhere else.

So, we set out again, more prepared this time, bringing the extra food and a towel and blanket. We found our way back to our little place in the dunes and spent the rest of the afternoon taking in the sunshine and enjoying this little slice of heaven. I can't wait to get back.