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| Sunrise, Galveston Island State Park, Steve Brown 2025 |
One morning I watched the orange sun lift above the folded and polished waters of the Gulf of Mexico in a tangerine sky with blobs of tropical clouds hanging around. The surf was constant, but not loud. The air was moist and slightly chilly, but not cold. Marci and I had driven up to the restrooms to shower at Galveston Island State Park on this last morning of our very rushed trip with Lloyd across Texas. And then we had slowly strolled down to the beach. I walked in the warm waters knowing I probably wouldn't return for a long time. Our previous time in Galveston was in 2001.
Tonight, I had at least half a plan of what I would write here. It had to do with the "Thou Mayest" section of East of Eden, Chapter 24. But for some reason, I was drawn to that other coast so far away from Monterey, so far away from the Salinas Valley, and so far from the overall narrative journey of this book, not to mention whatever it was that I wanted to tap into in East of Eden to make a point I had on the tip of my tongue last weekend, but which right now, seems to have sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I'm sure I can find it again, and probably will, when I reopen the novel sometime soon.
But right now, all I want is to stand on a beach in Galveston and listen to the waves. Another day it will be Pismo Beach, or La Paz, Mexico. And some days it's not a beach at all.
But it is always somewhere. Including here.
I sometimes get lost, looking for meaning. I want things to add up. I want there to be something. I want there to be love and kindness. Not sometimes. But always. I want there to be peace. I doubt the toad ever feels peace when the tarantula is devouring it, nor the fly battling pointlessly to get free of the spider's web. Physically, nature frequently offers no peace. Nature is mostly brutality with short, glorious moments of birth and love, like a doe licking the afterbirth off her wobbly newborn fawn. If you see nature without jaws of death though, you are not really seeing nature at all.
Yet, spiritually, I only feel solid on a beach, a retreating wave sucking the sand out from underneath me. Or about any other place where nature is big and I'm small.
Other than close family, I never feel comfortable around people unless there are enough of them to where I can be totally anonymous. I guess there's something wrong with me, but it doesn't feel that way.
Silence astounds me. Standing alone in the desert, I seem to expand in all directions, become everything. How can I feel lonely? How can that feel bad?
I watch people. I can even enjoy watching people. Occasionally, I can forget myself, lose myself in laughter or a string of ideas in the company of others. I think it is a good thing to learn to let down my guard and do that more openly, more freely, and I am getting better at that. But I know who I am. I know who I'm meant to be. I was born to stand on a beach and marvel at sunrises and sunsets.
Perhaps I told God in the preexistence, "I just want to go down and observe crap. Let everyone else strive to get something done. They enjoy that. Just let me look and put into words what I've seen."
I have lived a good life. I wouldn't give any of it back. But I could have lived much better life if I'd been more comfortable with who I am. I still can be. There's time. I can play my part in a world I believe is make-believe as a sort of game and still be incredibly genuine underneath it all.
It seems possible in the moment, but ten minutes from now, my ego could easily be trying to devour me. Once you identify your ego for what it is, you become more aware of the wolf and smile at him as you cautiously walk by through your inner landscape. I'm just beginning to do that.
Writing about the sea reminds me who I am meant to be.
God, help me remember it tomorrow. Let me give others that space too, let them be who they want to be. Don't let me get caught in webs of fear of my own making.
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