As a professional people watcher, evidence gatherer, and dot connector, I was on duty at the hair salon this week when I overheard a conversation between two women.
“Have you ever been to Hearst Castle? It’s beautiful.”
“Hurts Castle?”
“Hearst Castle.”
“Hurts Castle?”
“Huuuuuurst Castle.”
She had never been. I’ve never visited Hearst Castle, either—not exactly—but I’ve been dwelling in Hurts Castle for a good bit. I was then asked the same question.
“Yes, it looks beautiful,” I said, “but I’ve only seen it from a distance from PCH.”
Today, on his birthday, John and I walked along our local beach and discovered some dang impressive make-shift shelters tucked away beneath the rugged San O cliffs.
What a pleasant surprise; I felt like a queen in her castle overlooking the sea. The sloped, ergonomic placement of the smooth flat stones was as comfy as any Adirondack throne. And I’m pretty sure our view of the Pacific was better than that of ostentatious Hearst Castle, which, from Pacific Coast Highway vantage, is like a Tiny Home.
So, we’re richer.
We haven’t technically broken our lease on Hurts Castle, but like the fridge magnet I have that reads “ALL BAD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END” above the beat-up “Breaking Bad” RV—it almost feels like maybe-just-maybe the tide is turning. For example, yesterday, as the CHP stopped us on the side of the toll road, we did the combination eye-roll and heart-sink. But then, cue the record scratch and prep for a plot twist:
The best, most handsome, kindest, most insightful, and grace-giving highway patrol officer I’ve ever met said that even though John had clocked in at 80 MPH, he was going to let John off with a slow-down-and-have-a-nice-day warning. I told him, “I love you so much right now.” More than once. Okay, three times. To the CHP, not John.
There were a few other occurrences this past week that hint at the hope my fridge magnet offers:
This, too, shall pass.
Seasons come and go.
Tides change.
Things may just be getting smoother.
Can we have hope?
Sure, it’s risky.
I could trip again and break my other arm.
But I’m going to keep walking.
Today, at his favorite surf beach, we sat in our castle made up of driftwood and palm fronds and talked and walked on sand and rocks. As I navigated the terrain, I mostly stared at my feet, fearing I would trip on the thousands of wet, loose, speckled and striped, multicolored, gorgeous, slippery stones smoothed and made slicker by the beating of that beautiful ocean. I also had several near misses from stepping on a live bee (two weeks ago, I was stung on my broken arm and then had a ridiculous allergic reaction, which made everything just super fun). Today, I found numerous stones that resembled metallic, precious, and glittering jewels, perhaps like some of the golden treasures found in Hearst Castle.
But these beach jewels were priceless.
At one point, John asked if he could read me a “poem.” Sure, I said, and I silently noted that he’d never asked me this very question in our lives, and I had no idea he had been reading poetry.
Sea change?
He began reading, which was written by Thomas Mann, from the Introductory Essay of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina:
“….Cherished scene, incomparably soothing and harmonious, to which I return again and again, whenever the circumstances of life permit! Beneath a sky in which gigantic, gently shifting cloud continents take outline from the blue depths below, rolls the sea, darkening to green against the clear horizon, surging onward in seven or eight whitely foaming rows of surf, spreading invisibly far in either direction. Yonder in the distance a magnificent piece of action is in play, where the sandbank repels the initial shock attack of the oncoming waves. The wall of water flashes bottle-green, metallic, as it rears up, hollows, arches forward, plunges flat, shattering into spume, the thunder of its ever-recurring crash playing deep base to the higher hiss and murmur of the inshore breakers and the receding wash…..My eye is never sated with the drama, my ear never wearies of this music.”
I love the ocean, but John is bonkers for it, which is why this passage resonates. And apparently, he’s now into poetry.
A dangerous, beautiful ocean has beaten us smooth—at least around some edges, others may need additional wave-pummeling.
This week brought some unexpected treasures that appear to be small internal shifts, epiphanies, and, from certain angles, a glimpse of new sight—perhaps even what Jacques Philippe calls Interior Freedom: spacious living in a tiny hut castle with nice back support.
When—not if—you find yourself in Hurts Castle, I hope you discover the riches found only there.