Licorice Cows and Butterscotch Deer

A free week, unanticipated, joyous minutes of freedom, and another road trip.  This time, we unpack in Cambria.  A simple, quaint Inn on Moonstone Beach.  Here the water laps gingerly onto the stones.  There are no sharp, craggy cliffs against which an angry ocean can ply itself over and over. A lone cypress sits across the small road.  At the end of the boardwalk, just where it disappears into a small stairway down to the sea, one comes upon harbor seals, sea lions, and perhaps a sea otter, languishing upon the rock tableaus.  The sky is not simply overcast. In rich contrast to our previous visit, the air is heavy with mist. The dampness is palpable.  Is it possible to feel it at bone level - like one can the deep cold?  Small tousle-headed birds of rich graphite wander among the chairs here on the patch of grass.  The adirondacks are empty, all but the bright yellow one which holds me.

The drive north so different this time. Only momentarily did I find the sense of being absorbed by the hills.   Only an instant, a split second. To my core, and then gone. There was no experience of being alone with the earth. Still I marveled at the colors. So muted, darkened by the clouds and mist. So verdant every one. Sporadic cows, of tans, chocolate browns, and deep, rich licorice black. Dotting the hillsides in small clumps or standing alone.  Along a small road off the highway, two light butterscotch deer. From where? Perhaps a trick of the eyes, and in fact small calves grazing the edges of the meadow.  Gone from sight. The hills erupt here and there with rich green mounds, thickets of trees, rugged grey tangles. Sigh. Is the call quieter now, or am I simply not listening?

We trot up to the treasure trove of moonstones across from the San Simeon Pines, eager to immerse ourselves again in the heaven-on-earth rich mounds of polished stones along the water. The tide is out, the sand dry. The shoreline is littered with the carnage of crabs, seaweed, and small creatures now filling the bellies of sated seagulls. The gulls are still gathering just down the beach, scavenging on even more. We sit for a few moments in the sand. No magic overcomes me.  Tossing a small handful of hopeful stones in my bag, we vow to return later, or perhaps early in the morning when the tide has risen and ebbed back into itself.  Only in the dampness of the sea does one see clearly the rich treasures gleaming.

In the late afternoon, we finally venture away from the beach and into the small town of Cambria. While we wait for the dinner hour to begin, we wander into the welcoming doors of Heart's Ease, caroming from room to room, smell to smell, perfect object to perfect object. Walls of candles, next to walls of books I dare not stop to examine. In the next room, glass jars of all sizes filled with herbs, peppers, seeds, potpourri, and teas. I could spend hours on the small shelved wall, and harvest hundreds of small bags of fragrance and flavor. Isabella rounds the corner behind me. "Oh, Mom. You could stay here forever, huh?" Indeed, child. Out back we find a wild path of herbs, flowers, vines, and heaven knows what else.  Gladiolas are twelve feet tall. Grape vines with the hugest leaves I've ever seen. The signs promise faeries, exacting pledges of kindness in exchange for permission to roam. As I wander further, I am suddenly small - perhaps a faerie. For how else could these simple plants loom so high above me?

Dinner at Linn's - a perfect meal, a perfect glass of Ventana pinot noir. Sheer perfection. Panko fried chicken, grilled vegetables, smashed potatoes. Fresh focaccia with charred bits of garlic dipped in fresh olallieberry jam.  One piece of warm apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Sigh.

Now, sitting here in my yellow chair, it is not quite dark, and the lights are just coming on. We had a lovely walk after dinner, dancing with the incoming tide just long enough to collect a handful of shiny stones. We meandered the boardwalk, watching the sea lions. The surfers gathered down the beach where perfect sets broke onto the shore 8 times out of 10. But those two sets offered a few seconds nirvana on the wave.  It grows darker, and the lights brighter. No part of me wants to go inside, despite the cold. The sea is louder now - the tide having reached the rock. It is a slate grey. I notice that the cypress actually has a smaller partner beside it.  How did I miss that? "Cypress, Isabella. C-y-p-r-e-s-s." I explained this to her because I want her to know them when we drive the road between Carmel and Monterey tomorrow - when we stop at Nepenthe in Big Sur. I hope she will appreciate their beauty.

Sitting here, across from the sea, I can feel my wings relaxing into my body. The chattering in my head has quieted, and I can hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Phone calls returned, texts sent. I struggle to keep any sense of time at bay. "When will we be there?" "Isn't it taking longer this time?" Why do you ask?  I do not know.  I do not care.  I have left my world of the constraints of minutes, of the lines of day and night. In this space, boundaries blur until they are non-existent. No shoulds, no oughtn'ts. Only "shall we."  Only, "yes."