The fog comes out quickly over the Pacific Northwest coast. We’re in the heart of a month-long trip planned nearly a year ago: Twenty-eight days away from the precious cat, from Prospect Park, the small apartment my partner and I share, and our wonderful community now taking care of said cat.
For the moment we are trying to let go of all that, and embrace this unique opportunity to indulge in a long vacation, and feel what it might mean to let go of all of that for a little bit, to get out of daily responsibilities and experience new things. As we drive up the coast, the sand blows in swirling patterns over the shore. This area of coastal Oregon is known for its dunes: mountainous piles of sand crested with swaying beach grasses.
We find a dune and some peace from the wind on a beach walk one morning. The thought occurs to me, that if we sat here long enough, bit-by-bit the sand would build and we too would become rippling mounds with swaying jade brush glimmering on the peaks. I look again at the dunes, like old salty gnomes they are, grumbling as the sea tides rise and fall at their base, like people came and never left.
When it’s time to move on, we drive until we come across a rest area, one of many scenic viewpoints along the 101 that ruptures every sense of sight and sound I’ve had. It’s hard to imagine a boulder so big, wave upon wave so absolutely thunderous, an ocean so giant it laughs at my puny senses, and swallows them: All confirming that, yup, this world is massive.
It’s Devil’s Churn: an ancient basalt rock formation created by lava thousands of years ago. Now it’s a narrow passage where ocean water rushes chaotically. We watch the tumult from a cliff above, where there’s an old plaque. It looks about thirty five years old. It’s roughed up by sand and wind. A time-worn picture of the very same view we are looking at, as if the photographer had been standing right there, right where we are, decades ago. But what captures us above all, is the writing on the plaque.
I’m not someone who enjoys reading wall text next to paintings in museums. I enjoy some good facts, but when it comes to being somewhere I like to experience it for myself first. But this plaque was different. Never mind the fact that it’s entirely unclear, even on the internet, if Devil is possessive or plural, and the grammar unkempt. The language on the plaque is out of hand beginning in this way:
“Pulverizing and pounding crashing and smashing. Endlessly, relentlessy, the Pacific Ocean careens into Devils Churn, until the crescendo of waves explodes in a riot of white froth…”
Summer vacation looks different for every child. But there’s a loosening that seems to happen in the summer months, a shaking off. In the summer the world can open up a bit, for those in climates with more fluctuation, it’s a melting. The sun, the heat, does something to us, gives new light. Time, for a child out of school, opens wide. I wish we could all have this kind of time because it makes us see the world differently.
As I consider the lessons in this blog, I want to invoke the mastery of that anonymous master who wrote about Devil’s Churn. I encourage you and/or/with your student, to read over the text, identify the adjectives they used. Consider the active verbs, and look around at your own miraculous, and probably (thought not necessarily) very different landscape. And find your own place. This could be a single spot, or it could be an entire river, city, or mountain range. Think about the animals, plants, and geological shape of that place and give it a name. Imagine that someone is coming here for the first time, and describe it. Use verbs that will draw people in, use adjectives. Use bold and magnificent language. You have two choices here. Either, you can invent a fictional stories about how this land came to be, or you can research how this land came to be as it looks, create a plaque, and, if you like, add a picture.
Bending Tree Education 