Every wave that crashes on the shore has a history, and with that history, a purpose. The purpose is born along with the wave, when a breath of wind or a drop of rain causes a tiny ripple on the water's surface. And as this ripple is amplified by breezes or currents, the purpose grows. By the time the ripple has become a mighty swell, surging across the open ocean, the purpose has grown to an overwhelming power, a power which propels it inexorably towards some distant shore.
The purpose that drives waves to the shore is a mission of memory. As the swells grow, they gather from the distant echoes of time, echoes that flow down rivers into the sea, that settle deep amongst the coral. These echoes are swept up from wherever they gather, whether caught in the roots of a tree, stuck in a low spot in a meadow, or clumped together in a sour city gutter. These echoes are sounds of people's names, forgotten conversations, faded dreams and daydreams, peals of laughter, furtive whispers, even sudden smiles. All these echoes accumulate, until the rain takes them to the sea.
The sound you hear when the wave reaches the shore, the rushing of the waters and the roar of the surf, only part of that sound is from the physical impact. If you listen very carefully, you can hear what each wave has to recall: the name of one long dead, the story of a gathering, a song of Springtime, the taste of a meal, the rhythm of a dance, or the memory of a wink.
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|A brief jaunt along Corral Canyon. See Matt's pictures.|
All misspellings, misattributions, omissions or errors in naming should be construed as Acts of God, directed through yours truly (for reasons at which we as mere mortals may only guess...)