A Seaside Ritual
With the Spirit of My Father
Saturday afternoon, a friend and I walked the Laudholm Beach Trail eastward toward the sea. Along the way, we stopped to tell stories, and
in between memories of now, and then, we picked serviceberries from the bushes lining the path; jumped up on the bench to reach the high branches; pulled them down to our
hearts, to gather the ripe, purple fruit.
Once over the dunes, I was relieved to find
the beach nearly deserted. Independence Day weekend on the coast of Wells, Maine, and a near-empty beach was the quiet blessing I needed. Walking, a pile of black and white otherworldly beach stones stopped me in a
way I've grown accustomed to listening to.
Here: a skull-shaped stone.
It fits perfectly in the palm of my left hand.
I was pulled down to kneel in the sand and make a mandala from nature's treasures.
Circle of stones, circle of life, death of fathers, and grandmothers; birth of my child, my child growing away; cousin's children newly born and flying; nephews and niece and all the unknown descendants yet-to-be-born. All of our family's souls dancing in a great silent film that can only be heard with all my senses opened wide.
Skull stone placed facing east, toward the sea, into the waves of sea-love and freedom.
Be free, Dad!
I started crying. Asked my friend for some time alone. I cried so deeply - waves of grief in me, offered to the waves hitting the shore in front of me, and back out to the Great Mother.
Tears, memories of my childhood: summer days, traveling to Wisconsin; fireworks off the highway over Chicago; truck stops and sips of Dad's coffee; six of us sleeping on the hood of the car, the roof of the car, the back of the van, the back window of the old cars, with our faces squished against hot glass, sleeping kneeling behind the passenger seat, our sister's leg for a pillow; broken promises, giant dreams, making me laugh when I was mad; read every sign you ever see and you'll never get lost! Barstools in the morning, Pepsi and chips for breakfast, Chinese food at midnight; old men giving us quarters for the jukebox - Love Will Keep Us Together; Undercover Angel.
by Melisa Potter