A walk on Glass Beach in Fort Bragg, California is a magical experience. Everywhere I look, bits of metal, ceramic and, the beach’s namesake, glass, greet me.
Glass Beach is more accurately a string of small beaches. I must climb over rocks to get to them, some of which are not rocks at all, but compacted behemoths of garbage. These are not barefoot beaches.
The unusual composition of Glass Beach draws in tourists from every part of the globe. Today I hear Russian, Spanish and French. I note that most people, when faced with the decision to take the difficult path or the easy path, choose the hard way.
I also opt for “difficult” and it is a treacherous descent. The colorful debris is mixed in with seaweed, coral and natural rock. But most don’t care about these natural elements, for almost everyone is here to see the transformed trash that had been dumped into the sea long ago. The constant tumbling has made its rough edges smooth and pleasing.
I wonder if all these people, including myself, are subconsciously drawn here because we feel parts of us are “garbage” in need of casting into the ocean. And yet what does the sea tell us as it tosses back everything we’ve thrown in? Every bit of us can be tumbled to perfection—transformed into the most beautiful part of our being. Perhaps this is why so many of us choose the difficult path.
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Sometimes I feel old. But walking in the ancient bristlecone pine forest among the oldest living organisms on earth—these trees—makes me feel young. One pine named Methuselah is over 4,700 years old, living more than half its life before Jesus was even born! I ponder what this tree has witnessed…
Approaching the forest, the landscape seems too desolate to harbor any flora. But as I gain elevation in these White Mountains—a high desert range—I am surprised by spheres of golden flowers, puffs of bristly brush and good-sized green conifers.
But there’s nothing quite like the wildly twisted trunks of these anthropomorphic bristlecone pines, flailing their multiple arms upward in pleading gestures. I wonder: Are they praying for us; for rain?
They have made adversity their friend, not living thousands of years despite their harsh conditions, but because of them. They’ve taken advantage of a climate in which few others can survive. Seeing them I ask: How can I approach adversity differently?
All photos © Sondra Sula.
Near the North Aurora dam there is a big crack in the ice. The crack extends out from the east edge, cutting a diagonal line that ends mid-river, at the mouth of the dam. Water from underneath the ice flows down and over the shallow dam. This crack creates a large triangle, about two hundred feet on its longest side.
I imagine this triangle, this massive chunk of ice, cracking off. How exciting and frightening it would be to see it come crashing down the tiny falls, breaking into smaller pieces. I imagine the noise, the piercing cracks, the pushing of air from the wings of surprised mallards, geese, and herons, and the immense splashes of solid hitting liquid. All of this would take place rather quickly and then things would gradually go back to the way they were.
Sometime in our lives, we are living with a crack. We’re so afraid of a part of us breaking off and flowing down the river. We’re afraid of the repercussions, of getting hurt, of hurting others. But God is with us. Even when the piece breaks off. Even as we gradually get back to whom we once were. Even if we’ve changed and that triangle of us is forever gone, God remains with us.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 