The Lodgepole pine and cypress trees camouflage single homes nesting on the edge of the ocean cliffs. The fence signs warn trespassers. Electric gates, bar access, and not-so-hidden cameras promise exposure to those who defy the written and unwritten warnings. Private property, stay out.
In addition to the fences, signs, and gates, these estate owners have acreage, ensuring their privacy and anonymity. However, there is a law requiring oceanfront access to the public. I am the public. I find a sign of access semi-hidden between properties. I park under windswept pines and stately eucalyptus trees and meander between estate fences down the unkept, narrow path to the ocean cliffs. My footsteps alert coastal dwellers. Deer heads poke up through the overgrown foliage. Their noses twitch and sniff the air. Their brown eyes scan about. Rabbits and, no doubt, rodents scurry away, their little paws snapping twigs. They are fearful of me, and I of them. You know, the unknown. The shadows. The unseen. I lower my head in deference. This is their home. I was not invited. I whisper my apologies. They carry on, and so do I.
I become one with the brown coastal ants and monarch butterflies. The vastness of the Pacific Ocean humbles anyone self-aware enough to recognize and accept the insignificance of our exiguous existence. And because I believe we are all on the narcissistic spectrum, I want to believe I count, I matter, my life has meaning. After all, I am here. I exist. I breath.
I inhale the clean, earthy breath of the eucalyptus and pine and feel the subtle bitter salt spray tingling my tongue and slapping my face. If I could, I, too, would own one of these exclusive conclaves sitting high and alone. So peaceful. It isn’t quiet, but the noise is not manufactured.
The seagulls squawk while they hunt and dive. Fish swim, and fouls fly. Marine algae float lazily on the wavy sea surface. Kelp, carried by the thunderous waves that dissipate into small ripples of foam, dry on the sand. Wisps of wind skip single sand pieces. Dried, dead wood, plastic, and debris litter the beach. There are no footprints on the half-dry, half-wet beach—the line separating the two moves with the changing tide. The steep, jagged cliffs deny access to even the exclusive homeowners—but not to the invasive imported ice plants that cling and spread across the cliffs to the sand below. They deprive native plants of light, water, and nutrients. They invade and conquer until nature or humans intervene.
You can not manufacture this.
This feeling—this raw, earthy, real piece of life—vacations, resorts, spas, money, fake food, energy drinks, drugs, alcohol, sex, movies, work, drama, and trauma can not manufacture the feeling of belonging, acceptance, life, and love.
We were created from the dust of the earth, or so “they” say. We are the garden, and we must embrace nature to nurture us.
Today, among the squawk of the world, I feel defeated, alone, and in despair. Some say that that is what “they” want. I don’t know what “they” want. I only know what I want. And sometimes, my ice plants suffocate the light and nutrients I need to thrive. And I forget what I want. And sometimes, I lack the nutrients even to sustain what I need.
It is in the soil. It is in the soul. I am here. I exist. I breath.
I need to Inhale the clean, earthy breath of my life, taste the salt on my tongue, and absorb the slap on my face. The stay-out signs are posted in my mind. The narrow, hidden path to see beyond what I know is there for me to find. I must trespass my self-imposed boundaries and become exposed to myself. I will work on that because,
I am here. I exist. I breathe, nesting on the edge of my life.