The Point of Solitude

Today was a beach day at Damon Point State Park and Protection Island. My day hike guidebook promised a trail, which I somehow never found. That phantom trail could possibly be related to the paved road that abruptly drops off into the bay. Instead, I wandered along the beach to the end of the spit, drawn from one driftwood sculpture to the next and occasionally wondering if high tide would erase my path back to the car.

I ran into a grey-haired couple or two along the way (because I apparently inhabit the realm of the retired now), but mostly I enjoyed a solitary beach. From time to time I pulled out my phone to snap a photo, partly because an angle of wood or an unexpected ocean castoff intrigued me and partly because when an active woman inhabits the realms of the retired and navigates her rambles alone, she needs to document her existence. I do ponder sometimes whether, were it not for the evidence of a photograph or a blog post to verify my wanderings, I would simply cease to exist in those hours between my appearances in society. (If I have nothing to show for my day, did I, in fact, actually live the day at all?)


A flag fluttering above the beach grass beckoned me to the end of the spit, where I found the consummate beach house. More elaborate than most man-made beach sculptures, this haven offered four walls and a roof, with a wide doorway open to the bay and room for a crowd. "Love your mother," proclaimed the welcome sign inside (Mother Earth, I suppose). In the fire pit, a teepee of tinder waited for a match. I resisted the temptation to pull a chair to the door and read the afternoon away, opting instead to leave the beach behind and explore a bit of the grassland.

It has been some time since I simply ambled aimlessly about, with no clear path and only a vague notion that by a certain time I should find my way back to my car to shake the sand off my feet and re-emerge into the world. With the Pacific on one hand and Grays Harbor on the other, I set off across what looked like a meadow. Ah, but beach grass can be deceiving, hiding hills and valleys of sand, a multitude of logs and odd bits of leftovers washed up past the beach from boat wrecks half a world away.

I stumbled about, listening to waves crash on the sand and relaxing into the solitude. For a rare hour, I managed to live in the present, no thoughts of anything outside the waves and the wind and the sand beneath my feet. Somehow, sea air accomplished what I often seek and almost never achieve with intentional meditation. I left the world behind, forgot about my "to do" list, my pocket of worries and all of those vitally important items that typically clutter my mind.


Eventually, I found myself back at the car, and the world slowly returned. It felt less important now, somehow, balanced against driftwood and broken shells and water that ebbs and flows and erases my footprints before sunset. Someday, I may return to the beach house and accept the silent invitation to stay awhile. Or perhaps another refuge will beckon me past the boundary of the everyday and into the holy place of solitude.