Remote Learning
This morning I did some learning in a remote place: a rocky ridge in the backcountry. My 7-year old buddy Virginia went with me, and her lovely grandmother Jo. Neither of them had ever been to this particular spot, which I refer to as the sandstone pools when rain fills its concavities, and the rest of the time, as church. Wind and weather have sculpted the rocks, leaving them swirled and hollowed and rounded into tantalizing shapes, and a sheltered arched recess and circular ledge convey a sense of embrace. It’s impossible not to imagine that those who were here long before us did not pause in this place for refreshment and reflection.
It’s a high point, and the view is long: in one direction the eye meets a progression of hills dense with coastal chaparral and inscribed with the occasional zig-zag lines of a sandy road, in the other, to the sea, and to Santa Rosa Island on the distant horizon. But today is deliciously foggy, and we don’t see the ocean, just white sky that is sometimes luminous, stretched taut against pale sunlight, making all the colors glow. Some of the rocks are gorgeously splattered with red and green lichen.
It’s a special treat to have Virginia with us. She never loses her sense of wonder, and she knows instinctively that this is a magic place. We sip tea with milk and honey in tiny china cups, and eat tangerines and butter cookies, and we know that we will never forget being here together on this hushed morning. It’s like climbing into a secret, and what can we do with the occasion, other than gratefully acknowledge it, and enjoy its sweetness?
I’ve been up here with other people over the decades, and sometimes we stand and look out toward the sea and send our wishes and hopes, prayer-like, into the universe, along with our thanks and our promises, and whatever else we want to say. (It’s a custom started by my friend Ming, who calls it “postcards to the universe”.) Virginia gets into the spirit of it right away, and her postcard is a loving one, starting with a wish for the pandemic to end. But despite the pandemic and the woes of the world, the three of us feel happy in this moment.
Virginia is a fine tour guide, pointing out the animal shape of a distant tree, a tunnel in a wind-carved rock, the silvery moss on branches. She notices things, and we try to take pictures with our cell phones, but they never seem sufficient. “My eyes are my camera,” says Virginia, wise and unencumbered. I learn so much from her.
Speaking of cell phones, at that incongruous moment, mine rings. Who knew there was a spot beside that sacred stone basin with cell service? Apparently the pharmacy is calling, for some unknown reason. I ignore it until it goes away.
“It could at least have been a real phone call from someone special,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” says Virginia, “like your great-great-grandfather letting you know he received the postcard you just sent.”
Could there be a more delightful response? My 7-year-old buddy has reminded me that we are composed of stories, after all.
And as I walk along with this precious child, my thoughts turn, as they often do, to teaching and learning, and it occurs to me that we are on the verge of being able to teach the kids one of the most important, formative lessons of their lives, a lesson that will shape them forever. We have the chance to demonstrate that a nation can rise up in the midst of sorrow and strife and mightily and unequivocally elect a good leader and turn our paths in the direction of righteousness and decency.
I feel certain that we can do this. The fiasco is unraveling. The cruelty and corruption are backfiring. What better lesson to teach our children than that we have the power and the will to change course, to uphold our ideals, to heal and work together?
What better postcard to the universe?