Music, the Beach, and Life Itself

Gosh it sure has been awhile.

I have really meant to be writing more, but... I haven't.

ANYWAY...

Two nights ago I decided to go for a walk on the beach.  I should probably preface that I've been in Cannon Beach, Oregon for the past week doing a conducting workshop and it has been BEAUTIFUL.  Four out of the five days have had sunshine and high-60's weather.  In fact, Thursday was the only day that was pretty overcast, and even that was wonderful.  The mist hung in the air as if in a romantic movie, and only intensified at night.

Thursday night we went to Rod's beach cottage (he was the guy doing the workshop) for a wrap-up party.  After all the party-goers left, I lingered behind along with my roommate and a high school teacher from California.  As we stood out on the balcony looking at Haystack Rock, we all decided to go out onto the beach.

As we stepped on to the sand from the beach access I was struck by how different the sand really is.  Growing up in Hawaii, I've always been pretty accustomed to coarser sand... This was anything but.  It was so cool to the touch and basically enveloped my feet, and it was so fine!  And I don't mean fine as in "oh gurl, you so fine" fine, but very very smooth - so smooth in fact, that it squeaked as we walked on it.

After I got over the sand, I looked out into the ocean and was struck dumb.

For you to get an accurate representation of what it was like, you need to have a frame of reference.  If you've never seen haystack rock before, here's a picture:

Imagine if you will the dead of night, with a fog that was just heavy enough to reflect the few lights in the town up to the sky, and shrouding us into the dusk (wow look at me being all poetic).  The tide had pulled all the way back PAST the rock, leaving us free to go all the way up to the rock all the way to the left of the picture to explore.

The sights were incredible.

Covering the rocks were a bunch of shell-looking things that, in the dim light looked to be moving.  There were also spongy moss-like things that looked really cool in the light.

Oh, and the water was like freezing.  Nbd.

Anyway, my two companions felt so compelled by the night that they decided to take a quasi-skinny dip.  I did not join them, if only because I didn't feel as compelled (I know I know, using the same word twice like this is a grammar no-no... But I couldn't think of any other word.  Sue me), so instead I started turning my thoughts inward.

I started watching the gentleness of the waves rolling in, and, amid the screams of "Ah! COLD!!!" from my compatriots, started trying to feel the rhythm of the waves, and (this is about to sound very zen) consequently, the universe.

In music, we all have our own interpretations of rhythm, and especially so if one is the conductor.  On that particular night, I started trying to feel the beat of the ocean.

When I was taught conducting, I was told to act as if my hands were immersed underwater so as to convey both relaxation, but also clarity in the pattern. 

I was reminded of that fact that night, not trying to control anything, not trying to evoke anything.

I simply was.