Little Shrines and Other Finds
On Sunday we rode our bikes in blustery winds along the crests and dips of the main ranch road and paused on a bluff by the railroad tracks. There we came upon a grouping of painted stones and a tattered feather placed in memory of someone loved.
We pedaled past the hole in a rock by the side of the road where for years someone has placed stuffed animals and flowers, a secret altar in a sandstone cupboard whose original meaning we can only guess at -- although I am often tempted to add a flower, and I do have a theory or two.
At the beach by the pier a handful of treasure hunters with metal detectors were meticulously combing through the post-storm sand in search of coins and jewelry.
There are others who scour the rocky outpourings of streams for artifacts more ancient and elusive: arrowheads, pestles, bowls carved out of stone. I think these objects call out when they choose to be found. (Last time I went looking, I found a friend instead.) But oh, what a rare and wondrous thing it is to come upon something formed long ago by human hands, still filled with the energy of its maker.
Treasures abound. Golden chanterelles await discovery in the mossy earth beneath the oaks. A flawless feather is snagged in the brush. A bit of cobalt blue beach glass will one day wash up on the shore.
But my thought as I pedaled along on Sunday was that we -- people, that is -- are forever leaving traces of ourselves, whether deliberately or otherwise. And at the sametime, we are forever looking-- not just for coins to fill the pocket, but for fragments of stories almost lost to time, or maybe for some comforting proxy to fill in pieces of ourselves lost and missing.
On the subject of shrines and holy places of the local variety, my favorite is a certain cave not far from here, and I went there yesterday, solo. I walked up a steep hill through thick brush and slippery mud, and then I crossed a creek bed and climbed up on the rocks. Of course I was thinking thewhole time about poison oak, ticks, and mountain lions, and more than once Iscared myself with the imagined sound or shadow of a stalking beast. But I felt quite convinced that I needed to go there, and at some point in the journey you might as well keep going.
The place -- it was waiting like a promise fulfilled. It’s a sanctuary, a room with a view, God’s lodge. There is a small table of raised sandstone where other pilgrims have left shells and pebbles of transparent quartz, but the only other evidence I saw of recent visitation were the prints of paws and hoofs. The rock around the entrance to the cave was wet with the week’s rain, and clear liquid beads slowly formed and dropped like tears.
I added my own prayers, thanks, hopes, and imaginings to those of all the centuries still ringing from these walls. The hills and sky and sea beyond were framed and held still, and I felt a sense of shelter and belonging here, as I always do.
Found. At least for the moment.