MAGICAL CREATURES

Walking alongside the Atlantic one morning last week, I saw how tides had created in the sand a pattern of infinite play that stretched as far inland as the ocean could reach.  Underfoot they massaged my bare soles, that outer layer of my imagination,  and set my senses spinning into the surf itself where anything is possible, the ocean herself the artist, the beach her fabric from which she might raise up the most magical creatures, the ones  we hear as we fall asleep with the window open, the surf's voice singing its caravans of  imaginary elephants thundering like freight trains, only to take to the sky like gulls when we rise from our beds in the morning to look, to verify, to go running out into the  landscape of water kneaded signs, ocean

 language for what goes on underneath 

the eyes of moon and sun, whitecaps pulled to shore, reaching their lacy fingers toward where we lay in darkness, dreaming the earth back to its beginnings, for there is always more than one beginning.  And always will be, as long as the ocean has its way with the sands we walk upon.

(with thanks to Magpie Tales)

JEKYLL ISLAND, Georgia

Jekyll Island has been my mother's favorite retreat for years. I promised her shortly after my father died that the two of us would go there to spend a restful time looking at the Atlantic wash the shores like lacework my grandmother crocheted to make doilies she placed on the backs of chairs and sofas.



Jekyll Island, being beautiful, has drawn the attention of developers, those for whom greed turns everything desirable into nothing more than a commodity. The island is being bull-dozed and transformed into rows of condominiums. The Republican legislature gave the developers their blessing, until they heard the outrage from their constituents. So-called progress has been slowed, but development is a juggernaut, sure to win in the end if enough people don't stand in its way, refusing to be moved.



My mother and I stayed at one of the first motels built years ago on the island, The Buccaneer, as it was then called. We had a second floor balcony from which to watch the clouds move, the palm trees sway, the Atlantic swell. The fishing boats floated on the horizon. At night we could see their lights far out at the edge of the world.



No matter what happens to the island, the clouds will continue their journey across the sky, the wind will blow as fiercely as always, whe surf will thunder onto the sand. As for us, who knows? Will we have the endurance to keep fighting for the places we love?