Winged

This whole past week, sound of war planes in the early mornings, where are they sent to? To war? Or is it preparation for Fleet Week and Blue Angels in the Bay Area? My first years in San Francisco, it would scare me to death. I would duck, and be astonished that nobody else did. People would ask me smilingly why I looked so frightened? I simply could not understand how people would voluntarily want to live with the sounds and symbols of war, the fear inducing noise, danger of impending destruction and death. It is an acquired taste. Only those in the military, in war zones, or those living in Black urban neighborhoods, intimately know the terrorizing sounds of helicopters hovering low. Winged beings are considered divine, winged things not so… 

 

Dragonfly helping me to find comfort in discomfort 

On Wednesday, finally another beach visit. The weather is wondrously hot, the Farallon Islands visible. A group of visitors exclaiming and pointing, they spot whales spouting way out at sea. I don’t have my glasses with me. So, I focus on what is nearby. The waves are rolling in high, crashing at shore with their satisfyingly complex roars. Drowning out everything: the squeaking flocks of sand pipers, my feet rolling and sinking into the wet sand, unnecessary thoughts. But not the helicopter going back and forth. I wonder why the need for a helicopter. Shortly after, moving up towards the dunes to visit my friend the whale head bone, suddenly a huge red metal dragonfly (helicopter) is racing toward me. Dipping down very low just above me. To scare me?  And a second time. The beach is almost empty. 

  

After the chopping helicopters are gone finally, the Brown Pelicans are having a day. A different kind of air traffic. Long winged, with air pockets in skeleton and skin, they are equipped for traversing air and water. Soaring along the shore in various configurations of two, seven, twelve, or eight, scanning the ocean close to shore for food. Young and old, and elders, all are out, many cutting over to rest at the inland estuary beach in a huge flock. All throughout my walk I can’t take my eyes off these majestic birds sailing over the cresting waves, their bellies almost touching the water. Flapping their wings to gain a bit of height and momentum, then relaxing and silently gliding above the water with outspread arms. Again, and again. My attention is on their artistry and elegance. Least effort. The whole maneuver of gliding penetrates my body-being. So-so-so-so delicious – a mixture of quiet ecstasy and beauty fills me. 

The tide Is very high and strong, the beach not flat as usual. Because its sand is soft and yielding everywhere, my feet and legs have to work harder. But the sea mist and caressing warm breeze are invigorating. The “bison” made of iron – a heavy big piece of ship machinery – lodged here for years, is barely visible even when the waves are receding. Its existence concealed to newcomers. Where ocean meets estuary, the sand flats are submerged in swelling surging waves. All is in motion, and so am I, now turning around, getting massaged by ebb and flow and shifting ground… 

The “bison” at low tide in April 

 

On my way back, passing again by a flock of resting seagulls, still sharing their nap time with guillemot pigeons. But now, pelicans are also occupying this spot. Approaching, as close to the water as possible in order to not disturb too much, waves splashing high up my thighs beneath my lifted skirt – I still am an intruder. The pelicans are the first to lift off with their huge wings. And suddenly I am engulfed by flapping wings. Standing still in this embrace of winged swirl, surrendering with amazement and awe – my body becomes a winged world.  

The seagulls are hardly bothered. The guillemot pigeons are next to hop up the slanted beach. But one of them charges at me instead, its beak grotesquely spread wide open, ferocious sounds emerging from the small creature. A nearby guillemot is gripping one wing of the scary (or scared?) fierce attacker, pulling it back with its beak – what a sight. This rescuer finally succeeds. Peace. Each of us is walking our own way. I marvel how we creatures aspire to protect each other from our own follies. This is how we share, how we care, how we dance... 

A favorite to wear for beach walks when warm enough

my recycled swirling summer dress made years ago by Diane (Multiple Threads) 

Travelling the sky now even more pelicans, further out they are diving for fish. Letting their bodies drop vertically from considerable height, entering ocean beak first – a big splash – then sitting for a short moment on the water, dinner caught in their pouch. And with a few flaps rising again for another dive. Today I drink my fill of pelican magic, as if my life is on the line…. 

 

PS: Early Saturday morning, my body remembers well how to glide over waves. Then, still in my peaceful bedroom cottage, on the little portable radio another war is announced. Israel – Palestine. Many dead. Air traffic. Hostages. And at a funeral in Ukraine, civilians killed by Russian missiles. The iron will and terror of aircraft and war. Winged things – ready to destroy – copied from nature by humans. Dive bombing. Shock and awe. This time in history our strongmen are on the rise again, at home and abroad, in form of demagogues, tyrants, brazen criminals, mafioso. Insane. Whipping up blood thirst. Maybe we fragile humans are easily seduced, loving the power of destruction too much.

Can we protect each other from folly? 

 

Karinaland River – Divine Winged Beings 

 

May we all sail with pelican hearts spreading our wings wide…