Point Dume, Malibu, California

I saw the following on my recent walk through the neighborhood of Point Dume, which ends at the Headlands, where a series of paths take you either up the incline or down to the beach. On my walk, I followed the trail through the headlands then down to Westward Beach’s parking lot, which hugs the sand, and all in all, the walk took me a little over an hour. What strikes me most about Point Dume as a residential neighborhood is how quiet it is, as well as the monstrous, indigenous succulent plants that line the road. The historic area was once hallowed ground to the Chumash Indians, and the three-sided ocean view is endless. Point Dume juts far enough into the Pacific Ocean to be the favorite local destination for the yearly whale migration, which happens in in both north and south directions from January through March. Point Dume is an extraordinary, beautiful area, exemplary of what can be found along southern California’s coastline.

In a Garden

 
It’s blowing with gusty winds that sail through the grass and sway through the trees incessantly. It’s a force to reckon with and each step outside is to secure something better removed than at the mercy of this wind. Looking at the sea, I see she dons a new personality. I thought I knew all her vagaries, yet in this wind she is moody, she is upset, she is rocking in multicolored facets under a kaleidoscope of light and I do not recognize her. She wears a white hat as she crests and flows in an intermittent roar then draws back unto herself with the rat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers. She is matching the rhythm of the wind, doing her part to join in companionably saying we are all one—I am all one with you and if this is the way of heaven and earth then I will play in the symphony.

The sea will not exhaust her histrionics. She has a point, lest anyone misunderstand. She rises and swirls to remind us that she has existed since the beginning and we are all here on borrowed time.

A garden lies hillside in the early morning springtime. She boasts rosemary, white roses, and sage. She looks at the wind, appreciative that it moves in synchronicity with the ocean. She remains still, save for the kinetic undercurrent that promises nubile growth. She is steady, confident, proud, knowing she’s a magnet of attraction. She basks in the attention of bees and white butterflies, thinking sometime, long ago, someone told her that all white butterflies are really divine angels. She knows she is equal to her task.

In a garden, worlds collide born of fellowship. One should consider history, and the camaraderie of all living things, for one cannot be one without the other.
And isn’t this just like us?