Filling The Well

I began to take pictures, first of the water with the morning sun reflecting on quiet waves, then the beach floor cluttered with shells, leaves, driftwood, branches, and rocks, the ducks – skittish Mallards, bold Canadian Geese, and majestic Swans, the river with its wide mouth, the bird house posed in front of the swamp, a stand of maple, birch and cedar lining the riverbank, the bridge with horizontal, vertical and triangular shadow lines, cast from one side, clear across to the opposite, an intricate path laid over the wooden bridge floor. I reminded myself to breath. Each flip of the camera’s shutter sent charges of electricity through my nerves. After half an hour, I stopped to collect myself, my senses in grave danger of overloading.

That was when I saw it, covered with tiny grains of sand, and partially buried, protected from view, and a bold easterly wind, by a two foot rock. The flash of red screamed against the beige of the beach floor, a carnation, the bud and a short, green stem. It was breathtaking, in a day of breathtaking sights.

How had this carnation come to be on this beach? I imagined teenage lovers, sitting at a bonfire last summer, the carnation forgotten after lovemaking. Possibly, it had been left by an older couple, she, weary from all that life had thrown at her, he, anxious to say he was sorry for his part in their crazies and thankful he stayed. Maybe a child had picked it from a garden before a trip to the beach, slipped it into a pocket, only to have it fall out during an intense castle building session.

I resisted the temptation to touch the flower, to tamper with it, to move it from its place of rest. Memory of a time, long ago when someone had given me a carnation, flashed in front of my eyes, the gentle timbre of voices no longer in my life rang in my ears, a lost smile faded in the autumn air, a gallery of images. A gaping sense of loss now mingled with the awe of beauty.

I searched the shoreline. I was still alone. I pushed tears away from my eyes. I am 47 years old. I am middle aged, with my life half over. When you reach 45 years old, you have a few stories to tell, some good, some bad, some thrilling, some horrific. I have my stories. Some are wonderful, and some are not. I have not changed the world, as I had intended in my teens and twenties, but I have given the world three new citizens. For the most part, they have been good citizens. I have not written a great novel, but I do journal. I do not have scores of friends, but I have a few. I have tried to be a good wife, mother, and friend. Sometimes I have gotten it right, and other times, I have not.

I have come far, and I have had small victories. I have felt irrepressible joy, and crushing misery. Along the way I have learned a few lessons, and I have forgotten just as many. Today I saw a red carnation on an empty beach, and I am happy. The weather, the autumn colors, my camera, and a red carnation have filled my well and I feel whole again. I can face another week.