At last, after two-and-a-half years, this weary pilgrim again headed to the coast, putting myself in a place where grace flows. Always. Every breath of salty air pulled into my lungs; every shock of cold water closed around my ankles draws me into the rhythms of the place. The infinite horizon. The boom of crashing waves. The gull cries. All of it. Grace sinks deep and soaks my spirit’s tired, depleted spaces with life. On this trip, gentle tears greeted my first steps through the dunes. The place spoke: “Welcome home.” My soul sighed with gratitude.

Bundled in a winter coat, hat, gloves, and scarf, I happily walked the ocean’s edge with my daughters, strong wind making the air feel much colder than its 38-40-something degrees. Following along the frothy seam that joins water and sand didn’t disappoint. The vista changed by the day, or by the hour, from blue skies and sun-sparkled water to dark, low-hanging clouds threatening rain. From smooth, glassy sea to turbulent waves. Birds covered the dunes and beach some days and were barely present on others.

I’ve become wiser over the years, happy with any weather and grateful for whatever the ocean offers up for my attention: The sun glinting on a broken shell. An interesting piece of driftwood. Sandpipers speeding along the tide’s edge, their short legs a blur of motion. Willets standing on one leg to preserve warmth on a cold day.

It might be sighting a dolphin’s fin in the distance while walking with my daughter or a windstorm that left its fingerprint on the sand.

Despite gleaning some wisdom on my beach walks, I don’t always heed their lessons.

Arriving home, I wondered how to share the experience with my readers. I searched for a topic, but found no over-arching theme. Instead, thoughts that emerged were of small movements of grace offered in every moment. Simple. Not requiring connection to something bigger for significance. Enough in themselves:

Looking for beach treasures to fill a lamp. Examining feathers on the sand. Learning that what looked like gray, rubber litter was actually a moon snail’s egg collar. Deciding that the walk to an old Coast Guard station was too long to complete before the park gates closed and enjoying the sunset instead.

There were many small pleasures found off-beach: A morning of shared painting and writing. The delight of sipping our first Vietnamese egg coffee: dark espresso topped with egg yolk and sweetened condensed milk whipped into a thick cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. A walk to the small downtown area and chatting with a local artist at the indie bookstore.

I bought honey from the beekeeper around the corner, and as always when on the coast, I relished freshly made crab cakes.

Wild ponies foraged along the road and a young, great blue heron seemed to preen for the camera. We marveled at a lighthouse and the engineering and skill required to build it in the 1800s. I savored the sweet smell of marshlands, so different from salty ocean air. We laughed together at Ted Lasso episodes while binging on Island Creamery homemade ice cream or white-cheddar “cheesy-poof” balls.

Each moment complete. Lovely. Overflowingly enough.

In her poem “Snow Geese,” Mary Oliver offers the wisdom of loving what does not last, calling it our task “…and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.” Being present to those fleeting moments open us to their gift. They might find their way into memory or stir hope or joy, but only if we are attentive. As Oliver’s poem continues, “…What matters / is that, when I saw them, / I saw them /as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.”

Returning from the ocean is always difficult for me. While I love family, friends, and familiar routines, I am a reluctant inlander. Once home, my challenge is to be as attentive to moments here as I was to moments on the island. Not with expectations, but with openness. Not looking for something that completes a larger picture, but simply moments that are, in themselves, grace enough.

It takes three things to attain a sense of significant being: God, a Soul, and a moment. And the three are always here.

Abraham Heschel

Photos: Mary van Balen unless otherwise indicated

© 2022 Mary van Balen