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I don’t know how things are where you live, but out here on the Olympic Peninsula, spring is in the air. Something in my spirit emerges with the buds on the trees and the flowers in the ground.
Life, again, takes on a different energy.
I love this. I’ve said it before: I am grateful for changing seasons. I like living in areas where the seasons are distinct and feel entirely out of my element where they don’t — one of the reasons 10 years was too long to live in Texas for me. My soul doesn’t vibe with a one-season location (ok, so I exaggerate a bit, but my four-season sensibilities always thought of central Texas seasons as beginning of summer, summer, and end of summer).
The Lone Star State has some gorgeous areas. It’s a great place to visit for the landscapes, and the explosion of bluebonnets and other wildflowers this time of year are gorgeous. But my heart longs for a little more seasonal variety than I experienced while living there.
That said, winters in an RV can feel long.
I’ve always enjoyed winter. I like the invigorating cold — you can always put more layers on, but you can’t always take more off; that’s my philosophy — I think snow is beautiful, and I enjoy traipsing around a pristine white landscape after a fresh snowfall. But in an RV, it’s harder to stay warm when temperatures plummet. And around here, many a mountain road close. The ones that don’t require the power of a vehicle I don’t have (and snow chains).
And, of course, there’s the rain. Thankfully, I live in the rain shadow, but La Nina changes the weather patterns such that the rains come from the west instead of the southwest, so we’re a direct hit. I don’t mind a little rain. This year, we fared much better than last, even with La Nina in place. Still, I’m happy for the movement of the jet stream and atmospheric pressure centers that signal a transition.
For me, hiking is limited to sea-level state and county parks during the winter months. I am truly grateful for those. And I’ve discovered more about underwater life around here because I’ve taken the time to observe. It’s a whole new world. One I really appreciate now.
Much like the one that exists internally. Once I decided to slow down the chatter in my head and allow myself to see what was hiding beneath the surface, sometimes hidden deeply, I came to value the unique internal landscape I hold inside.
Last year, on a visit to Mystery Bay, I walked out on the docks and peered beneath the surface, not expecting what I found. Never before have I seen such beautifully alien life forms as I saw clinging to the pylons, clumped in groups of seemingly disparate species all living together harmoniously (imagine that!). There was a mystery about these creatures that enthralled me.
The barnacles were ginormous, and for the first time ever, I saw the beings living within the hardened conical shell. They pulsed in and out of their armored homes, extending graceful tentacles in waves. Plants that looked like miniature, albino trees. Critters dressed in orange, green, or deep magenta coats, huddled together in the sea-green chill of Pacific-fed waters.
This little colony reminded me of how little I know about the world existing just beneath the surface, of how little we all often know about what lies just beneath the surface of those we pass on the streets, call our neighbor, friend, lover, parent, enemy.
Of how little we often know of what lives just beneath the surface of the shell we build around our own hearts.
Or sometimes we know it all too well but want to hide from our knowledge and most certainly keep it hidden from others. Makes me think of a song called Just Beneath the Surface by Dawes, probably one of my all-time favorite bands (though I’m less fond of some of their later albums). The song is about the hidden pieces the storyteller keeps from others — just beneath the surface — that are the roots of all troubles.
Except I often think it’s all this hiding that gets us into trouble in the first place.
At some point, the dock that held the little sea colony got taken away. It was absent for months, and I have no clue where the park folks took it. But then one day it returned, and the life clinging to the sides was still intact. It was exciting and somehow comforting to know they were back.
Kind of what it’s like when you begin to explore your own inner landscapes, discovering and getting to know, accept, and love the real you, and then becoming sidetracked in your journey for a while. When you return to yourself again, it feels like welcoming the return of an old friend.
This winter, I also discovered life on the beaches and in the waters lapping against rocks and washing over the coastline. There I found numerous lion’s mane jellyfish, both beached on the sand and pulsating underwater. This species of jellyfish is the largest species in the world, capable of reaching lengths of 120 feet from top to bottom (including tentacles)! Yikes! Fortunately, the ones I saw weren’t nearly so large.
I’ve been out in tidal pools now that the tides are cooperating again. As spring slides into place, the lower of the two daily low tides is again hitting during daylight hours, especially now that our clocks have sprung forward. My best friend and roommate, Gail, found out where the best tide pools were in the area, and we made several excursions to various locations.
Then, the other evening, the two of us headed to a state park beach to see what low tide looked like there. And, oh, what a lovely surprise to find tidepools we didn’t know existed! We saw two giant ochre sea stars, both as large as my foot. We also saw the telltale signs of clams. We felt them too, as they squirted water sometimes at least a couple of feet in the air.
And, I totally admit I had no clue what clams looked like beyond their shells. I found out the other night when I spotted the very large geoduck (pronounced, oddly, gooey duck) variety poking the long, tubular section of its body out of water. Seriously strange creatures. But fascinating, too
Then, yesterday, I took my first walk on the beach this season to see the rock where the endangered Stellar sea lions hang out. They’ll be heading north again soon now that the temperatures are warming up. It’s hard to believe how quickly this winter has passed, though sometimes the cold, wet weeks felt more like months.
I’ve loved this season of discovery, both internal and external. My wanderings through the winter have led to new understandings, delight in my existence here, and an appreciation for worlds often hidden from view. I like the rhythm of winter, the slowed-down life, the ease of contemplation. I also value having to search a little harder, a little deeper, to find those spaces where life thrives despite the harsher environment.
Now that spring is here (officially tomorrow), trees and flowers are beginning to show off their colorful displays. Seeing beauty is effortless, requiring nothing more than opening my eyes at the start of the day. It’s a fresh breath, and I’m all the more grateful for it after experiencing the challenges of winter. Isn’t that the truth about so much in life, though? We appreciate ease more after confronting challenges.
Though the weather is changing here at sea level, the mountains still have loads of snow, so it’ll be a few more heartbeats before I can lace up my trail runners and head for the mountains. Until then, I have plenty to satisfy me right where I am.
What are you most looking forward to this spring? What do your heart and soul long for most this turning of the seasons?
Peace and love,
Desserae
Shifting Space by Desserae Shepston is a community-supported newsletter. I am so grateful to you for stopping by and taking the time to read. If you’d like to receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. A paid subscription is just $5/month or $50/year. Adding the Substack app lets you easily join the conversation and participate in the community. And if this post resonates, please feel free to share!
Beautiful photos and a fantastic read!
I can relate about needing to be in a place that has seasons. I was born and raised in Phoenix, and now live in Idaho. I couldn't stomach another summer with the extreme heat and never really experiencing seasons. There is something so cyclical, natural and human about the change in the weather. Spring is an inspiring metaphor and I am very grateful to honor new beginnings in my life and in my garden :)