June 16, 2022

I’m with my family in Portland, picking along the East End beach, a narrow strip of sand, seaweed, shells, and driftwood which follows the Eastern Promenade trail. Our movements form a pattern: assemble, disperse, observe, call attention, assemble, disperse… We find tiny objects to collect, if only for a few moments, before setting them aside or tossing them into the sea, like temporary tokens granting us access to the private insights this landscape presents. My focus moves between distal and proximal, which I now realize is the special attraction of the seashore for me: the juxtaposition of near and far, micro and macro, minuscule and vast. Ankle deep in the bone chilling Atlantic, I pick through a flush of sea shells and pull out an ancient fragment of oyster. Three barnacles attached to concave side, “eyes” shut, regard nothing in particular. Their intricate structure is cemented into the rich surface of the sea worn shell; it makes a world which invites close study. My eyes relax, then squint, and I look out far beyond my fingertips to the Casco Bay and the incomprehensible ocean. I see myself just weeks ago, a reflection through space and time, on the other side of this watery expanse, similarly bent over, peering into Portuguese tidal pools to brush the delicate tentacles of sea urchins with my index finger. Then, as now, I held near and far in the palm of my hand.