Entering the Experience Encounter at Jalama Beach
Entering the Experience
Encounter at Jalama Beach
of the world, given, given with pizzazz, given in good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over.
Annie Dillard
It has been a long time since I have thought of travel as an adventure. Still, this is one trip I am anticipating. The express reason for the trip is to deliver the commencement address at Westmont College in Santa Barbara, California. Westmont’s president, Dr. Gayle Beebe, is a former student of mine, and I always feel that any opportunity to be with him is well worth the time and travel. I do have another reason, however.
Whenever possible on business trips I schedule a twenty-four-hour private retreat for my own renewal and spiritual growth. On an earlier trip to Santa Barbara I took a solitary hike in the nearby Channel Islands. This time I am hoping for a daylong prayer walk along a secluded stretch of coastline named Jalama Beach.
Once in Santa Barbara I jump into commencement activities with relish. My pattern is always to be as fully present as possible to the people and activities of the moment. When I travel there is no multitasking for me. No cell phone calls. No extraneous interviews. No catching up on e-mail. No laptop computer work in between events. All my energies are focused on the present moment and the precious people filling those moments.
Any commencement setting is abuzz with people and events. A reception for the graduates—all bright and eager and full of promise. Greetings and everyday chitchat with staff and secretaries and food service people—each one so crucial to the functioning of a college. Introductions to dignitaries of one kind and another—each one a unique person with even more unique stories to tell.
I attend the baccalaureate service. With no official part to play I am free to sit among the parents and guests who have come for this auspicious event. I watch them closely, and it is moving to feel their button-popping pride. Many no doubt have waited and hoped for this day for a very long time. Three students share brief reflections—well done, I might add. The main address is by Mark Nelson, Westmont’s professor of philosophy. He is obviously a hit with the students, and his talk is a grand-slam home run. In fact, the faculty as a whole impress me no end.
My commencement address the next day is on a topic I am passionate about, “The Humiliation of the Word in our Day.” from the famous French writer Jacques Ellul, and I am hoping to give the concept contemporary relevance. My final point has particular application for the ongoing life of contemplative prayer . . . and for my hoped-for retreat the next day:
, I urge you, the class of 2010, to allow your words to be grounded in silence. Remember T. S. Eliot in Ash Wednesday when he asked,
Where shall the word be found where will the word
Resound?
Not here, there is not enough silence.
You see, distraction is one of the deepest problems we face today. All of the visual stimuli, all of the chatter of the blogosphere, all of the confusion of doublespeak keep us perpetually distracted.
Remember, silence is a spiritual discipline and we need this discipline to unplug us from the inane babble of modern culture. Today, as a result of e-mailing and texting (wonderful technological inventions in themselves), we are saying more and more about less and less. For many this has become a genuine addiction. The din of noisy words tossed out so casually, so superficially, so carelessly snuff out the silence that would open us to the voice of the Spirit that groans within us. So, in our day we must learn to be still. To wait. To hold our tongue. To observe. To ponder. To wonder.
Silence cultivates the soil of our hearts so that life-giving words are allowed to germinate and take root. Then when the time comes for speaking, our words will flow like water from a silent spring.
The day’s festivities are rounded off with one gigantic reception on the college lawn for congratulations and pictures and greetings and introductions of relatives from far and wide.
Sunday morning, May 9, is my retreat day—Mother’s Day. I rise early, buy an apple and a bit of cheese for the day and head out for Jalama Beach. The hills along the narrow, winding fifteen miles of Jalama Road explode with bright yellow mustard plants. There are multiplied millions of these blooms, and they will all be gone once the summer heat gets to them. Amazing.
As I reach the high cliff overlooking the beach, I can see lupine and sunflowers waving in the wind. My mind wanders to the salient words of Agnes Sanford: “, then, in which God manifests Himself is . . . through and in the earth itself. And He still speaks to us through the earth and the sea, the birds of the air and the little living creatures upon the earth, if we can but quiet ourselves to listen.”
So today I am here to listen. As I drive into Jalama Beach proper, the park ranger deadpans, “May is our windy month.” I soon realize that his words tossed out so casually were a warning. The moment I step onto the beach itself I am greeted by a fierce wind whipping up waves and sand. “At least it will discourage potential beachcombers,” I muse.
Rather than face the wind head on I wander over to Jalama Creek and consider its role in providing a ready source of fresh water for the Chumash Indians who lived along this coastline for many centuries. It is easy to see why a substantial village of the Chumash existed here where the creek meets the sea. It was significant enough that the name of the village has survived to the present—Shilimaqshtush—but I can find no translation for the name.
I ponder these things as I look out at the giant cattails massed along the creek bank, bending in the wind. I see other plants too; elderberry and nettles and bulrushes. I wonder about these people, at one time eighteen thousand strong, who built a complex society that thrived for centuries. Especially unusual were their “tomel” boats, which enabled them to travel to and populate several of the nearby Channel Islands.
In 2001 a small group of contemporary Chumash re-created that dangerous journey, and now once a year they paddle tomel boats from the mainland to Santa Cruz island to celebrate a culture now all but extinct. The tribal decimation is an old story—the influx of European diseases to which the Chumash people had no immunological resistance. Eventually this entire village was rounded up and transferred to the nearby La Purisima Mission. Shilimaqshtush was no more. By 1900 the number of Chumash people had been reduced to a mere two hundred, although present day estimates are roughly three thousand souls.
I ponder all these things in my heart. The earth itself seems to rise up in protest against the inhumanity of it all. Perhaps that part of my own Ojibway heritage is responding with sadness to all that has transpired on this spot. The California missions no doubt produced many good things, and yet . . . wouldn’t the Chumash people have been better served if they had been able to continue living in this lovely coastal spot? I don’t know, I just wonder.
Christian theology teaches us that there are two major texts for our study and meditation: the Bible and the “book of nature.” Today I have come to Jalama Beach with the intention of studying the book of nature to see what the Lord might teach me. Evelyn Underhill reminds us that “, to refuse her friendship and attempt to leap the river of life in the hope of finding God on the other side, is the common error of a perverted mysticality. . . . So you are to begin with that first form of contemplation which the old mystics sometimes called the ‘discovery of God in His creatures.’”
It is time for me to enter the coastal windy blast directly. I reckon that if John Muir could lash himself to the top of a tree in a Yosemite snowstorm, I should be able to endure a little wind. I’m hoping for an extended prayer walk of five, maybe six hours. So I step out onto the beach proper where for many centuries Chumash children laughed and played and Chumash women cooked and made baskets and Chumash men hunted and fished. What might I learn?
Winds hit me full face and push me back. Blowing sand stings my cheeks and legs. I quickly turn my back to the wind and decide I should walk with the wind rather than against it. Of course, I will eventually need to head back . . . but maybe by then the stinging blast will have died down. I pull my hat tight around my ears, cinching the drawstring under my chin. One thing for sure, I’m the only person foolish enough to be out here. Solitude is mine today.
I remember Jesus’ words that the Holy Spirit is rather like the wind—we do not know where it comes from and we do not know where it goes. So I walk along trying to imagine this wind like the Holy Spirit. But I quickly abandon the metaphor—even the fiery blast of Pentecost could not have been this violent! The wind is just the wind and today I must contend with wind.
Walking with the wind allows me to see things quite well. The blowing sand stings my legs a bit but this is only a small nuisance. I can walk quickly with the wind pushing me along. The ocean waves are churning today; they too are being blown hither and yon. A wondrous, wild beauty.
In the space of half a mile I come across three live starfish stranded on the shore by the wind’s turbulence. I toss them back into the churning waves, thinking of the story by Loren Eiseley of the little boy throwing starfish back into the sea. The boy is confronted by someone who points out the hopelessness of his action: Since there are miles and miles of beach and hundreds of starfish, he can’t possibly make any difference. The child answers simply, as he tosses another starfish into the sea, “I am making a difference for this starfish.” A rather sentimental story really. But today I find it helpful to think of the value of touching just one life for good. I consider how I might be attentive to “that solitary individual,” as Kierkegaard put it.
Another mile down the beach I come upon a dead seal washed up on the shore. A recent death, I surmise, for no scavengers have yet descended on the carcass. This is the cruel, ugly violence of nature. But then, maybe not so cruel nor so ugly after all. This is simply the process of life and death that is part of the world in which we live. Still, I am sad at the death of this seal. It causes me to consider the countless number of seals who perish in the ocean every day without anyone to know or care. Except perhaps God.
After an hour of walking I am quite done in by the fierce wind. Its blowing, blowing, blowing is becoming more than a nuisance, more than a bother. It is a sharp pain blocking out all else. I search for some way to escape the wind. The sea cliffs here provide no cave or shelter that I can see. Quickly I jog around a bend in the cliff wall hoping that will shelter me somewhat. No such luck. The wind seems even more ferocious than before. I conclude this just isn’t my day for sweet lessons from the book of nature.
Just then I climb over a small rock promontory jutting out into the sand. Normally I wouldn’t give it a second look, but today I notice that on the other side a hollow has formed in the rock that is just large enough for me to crawl into. So I do. I am half lying, half sitting inside this rock formation and it is a perfect shelter from the wind. The sand blows past me only inches above my head. I decide to stay awhile.
I examine the rock that covers and protects me. It is nothing like the granite I cherish so much in the Rockies. Still, it is a good-quality Monterrey chert. I read earlier that the Chumash used this rock to fashion beautifully flaked knives. This hollow in the rock is a perfect place for me to ponder . . . to pray. The sky is an azure blue. Wisps of clouds quickly pass overhead chased by the wind. Looking carefully into the sky I can see the moon, only a sliver this time of the month. In the full light of day it is quite pale. Indeed, I would have never noticed it without my stationary, half-reclining position.
In this little shelter in the rock I am able to pray. “All praise to you Lord God, Creator of all things. The thunder of the waves, the whistle of the wind, even this rock that protects me praises you. So this morning I too lift my heart in praise and thanksgiving.”
I think about Jesus who is the Master of wind and wave. I tried earlier in the day to tell the wind to stop and quickly learned that my prayer abilities are definitely not in the “calm-the-wind-and-waves” class. I feel a little like Elijah keeping his lonely vigil over earthquake, wind and fire.
I am content now in my tiny shelter, quietly watching waves crashing against the rock and seagulls struggling against the wind. I munch on my apple and cheese. This is a good place to be. My soul is still. Listening.
Rock, however, is completely unyielding. After an hour or so in my cozy little shelter, my back and butt ache. I need to move. So I rise and face the wind head on. It has not lessened one decimal point. I must make my way back into the full force of the sandy blast. Miserable. But I have no other choice.
On my return I turn my face sideways to protect my nose and eyes somewhat. In this position I observe the cliffs above me more closely than earlier. Nothing unusual really, only the Monterrey chert slowly disintegrating under the force of relentless waves.
But then, high up on the cliff’s edge, I see a tall wooden cross. I look at it for a long time as I walk by ever so slowly against the wind. There is no marker. No sign of any kind. It is quite weathered and simple. Only pasture land sprawls out in the hills beyond the cross. Why is it there? Does it mark some tragic accident? Did a child fall from this cliff onto the rocks below? Maybe.
I wonder though if the reason for this weathered cross could be different altogether. Maybe someone just wanted to set into this rugged cliff a reminder of the greatest event in all of history. The Son of God in relentless love hanging on a tree on Golgotha’s hillside. I don’t know. I just wonder.
I make my way back to the park headquarters, tired and sandy. A little Jalama Beach store and grill is nearby. They feature “the world-famous Jalama Burger,” and I order the whole, sloppy mess with all the fixings. No veggie or vegan food for me today!
On the walls of the grill are pictures and stories of the area’s history. The wind, I note, has been a wild presence for a long time. On one stormy night in 1923 seven ships broke apart on these rocky shores and twenty-five lives were lost. I conclude that my little skirmish with the wind was only child’s play next to what many have experienced on these shores. The Chumash people surely endured many a windy day. What did they do? And what might they say to me?
I eat my Jalama Burger and consider my day. Did the wind defeat me? Perhaps. Certainly it wasn’t the day I thought I would have. Did I learn any shattering spiritual lessons from the book of nature? No, but I am content with my experience. Weather of all kinds, physical and spiritual, is all part of our life with God.