At The Edge Of Seawater, Or, Saturday Morning at 7:30am
From inside out.
And outside in.
I love an estuary. When is it water and when is it dirt? When an ocean, when a marsh and when a river? When is that sound you hear wind rushing through treetops, when a full creek running?
One might even say, we are all each other. When we love someone we permeate each other at the margins, the edges.
What I mean is that my husband and I stayed at the most wonderful local place last month. Nick’s Cove, in Marshall, California, just up from Pt. Reyes Station. I cannot imagine a more perfect view. It’s as though I’d invented the moon for this moment.
Fog on the first morning of our visit.
We tried to go hiking that day but we sloshed our way along a path that had zero idea if it was Marsh or Hill, and when rain began to fall in earnest we turned right around and went back to the hotel.
Nothing like a bath when you’re chilly and damp.
Excellent bathroom wallpaper, no notes.
Then an actual bar at which we sat, had martinis, and ate dinner. Food was just regular ol’ food but I hadn’t done that since COVID began and it was intoxicating. Nah, not from over-consuming. From newness.
Sunsets. What is light and what is dark? What cloud and what the infinite universe?
Proving that indeed, of course, silly mortal, I did not invent the moon. What way is lit? I sure as heck don’t know and I sure as heck love the feeling of the question in my chest.
Bed was super nice. Love the colors, denim blue and dusty cognac, two of my faves in juxtaposition.
The second day, sun out, we did manage a hike. Trees limned by moss and light.
And the wildlife! On the road there we saw one fox. Then two deer on the trail. Then three raccoons back at the parking lot. Having scampered across the meadow (second baby is behind the mother) they proceeded to hide under our car. Hide under our car! Waiting for snacks! Which we did not give them, cheeky critters.
On the way home we saw four wild turkeys. Felt like a day on Sesame Street, 1-2-3-4, in the magic nearly-wilds.
Back at Nick’s the tide was out. I always find low tides dispiriting in the city or by a freeway. Mostly mud. But here it was just another occasion for marine conjunction; light, water, dirt. Oh, and if you’re a birder, trust me they’re feasting just out of frame, beaks down and feathers up.
OK, sure, trees understand they are not the sky.
I was reluctant to post about this place, because it’s so small, so wonderful, and so often fully booked. But heck, who are we if we do not share our good fortune?
Have a wonderful weekend everyone.
Still Here, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:55am
I quite like the redwood hue of this shirt (J. Crew), and the coffee-color of the pants (Eileen Fisher) and loafers (Paul Green). To say
Shouting Out Our Friends, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:14am
Let’s revisit the age-old practice of a Shout Out. Remember? Remember always making sure we supported our Internet friends and colleagues? Why yes, I do
Novelty In What We Know Already, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:58am
On a scale of love for novelty, 1-5, I’d put myself at a 4, even though I’ve lived in the same house for 35 years.
Wednesday News: Saturday’s Post Should Be Coming To You From A New Site
Hello all. If things go as expected, Saturday’s post should look different. Recognizable, but different. Most importantly, comments should work and mobile devices should
Last Week For Patrick Carroll’s Los Angeles Gallery Show, Or, Saturday Morning at 8:55pm
First things first, as I want you to see this show if you are so inclined. My son’s gallery exhibition, “Reading,” runs through next Saturday
And After Color We Want What, Or, Saturday Morning at 12:42am
Even I tire of wistful musing on the meaning of life. Instead, let’s wonder what we might wear when the weather warms. In your case
Green In The Fog, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:47am
It’s foggy here. My daphne with its lemon-sweet smell is in full flower. Small catkins and tiny cones hang from the tall alder in the middle of our back lawn. They’re pale green; the branches red-brown; leaves just budding. This spring the pale pink and white hellebores nigh-on burgeon. And yes I say spring because in California although a frost may yet come, the season starts soon. February, when it all begins in my neighborhood, is almost upon us. The roses are pruned, viburnum flowering, ferns unfurling a frond or two. Having lived in the San Francisco Bay Area for
Elasticity, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:57am
This is how you know we’re friends. That’s my sweatshirt, those are my sweatpants, and yes, my dilapidated slippers (on sale here for 25% off). (Also a shoe closet with pearl-studded booties gleaming goldly.) All, my friends, is not glamor. You know that already. It does feels new to have proven to myself that I dress solely for comfort. Comfort in its more expansive form. By this I mean, well, back when I was meeting the man who blogged as Reggie Darling, and with his husband, at a tony East Side restaurant in New York City, comfort was Prada or nada. In
January Wet And Dry, Or, Saturday Morning at 9:05am
I can tell you exactly the point where drinking less alcohol did it for me: no more two days/week, no more than a total of four glasses/week. The tipping point. Right there I started sleeping better, I could let a night or two go by without missing it, and, funnily enough, more than two glasses made me feel terrible. As long-time readers know, I’ve been cutting back on drinking for many years. Fifteen, to be precise. I don’t want to stop altogether, but have been determined to retool a bad habit that was this close to disaster. At one point I