High Surf

For a change we have weather: gusty winds, lightning, hail, heavy snowfall in the mountains, possible waterspouts while thunderstorms pass over the ocean. Our two links to the world, I-5 and I-15, are closed by snow, but by evening the rain in Santa Monica has mostly stopped.

I arrive at the beach at 6:30 pm, too late to jog the length of it, because I've been gathering and mailing information for my mother's last tax return to her CPA.

Going through all her records took me into the last two months of her life before she died last April.

That difficult time fills my mind now as I stand at the stormy beach after dark, looking at the high surf and turbulent sky.

I try to jog but stumble on trash washed up by the storm; better to walk.

The very first storm drain, usually covered by sand, has become an uncrossable stream. Each wave of surf pushes up the channel against the water gushing out.

I turn and walk back in the dark, grateful for a time to reflect and be alone with God and nature.

From 2003, when I brought my mother to California, through last April, I didn't have an hour in the late afternoon to spend at the beach. Every day by 4 or 5 pm I visited my mother, if I hadn't already been taking her to the doctor or some other appointment.

Sometimes I took her in her wheelchair to the pier and walked there with her. If I jogged, it was usually at dawn.

I'm stunned by the difficulty of my life a year ago, juggling her needs and mine as she faced her decline and death.

Regrets come to mind: why didn't I spend the full day with her on the day before she died? (Because I thought I had to teach my class, and I didn't know it was her last day.)

As I walk north, I realize the ferris wheel on the pier with its programmed kaleidoscope of colors is still displaying Valentine's images: hearts and the word L-O-V-E spelled out in sequence.

I smile and my mind eases.

There's so much mystery--but also love.