This was written at a writing center conference this past fall in San Diego.
When
one truly consider the origins of humanity—indeed, the origins of life
itself—it is almost inevitable that one must return to the ocean.
Walking along the Pacific beach in
October, I was struck by an awe-inspiring thought. By dipping my toes into the
freezing ocean water and feeling the rough grains of sand scrape on the soles o
my feet, I was communing with the primal origins of mankind. All life on this
planet began in the ocean; tiny, single celled organisms drifting through a
vast, empty world. The advent of land dwelling complex creatures is, in cosmic
terms, a relatively new occurrence. Our origins lie in the ocean, the original
birthplace in many ways.
Around me, parents play with their
children, lovers stroll with their hands locked together, surfers run out to
try the water, and all the while the great, slow roll and thunderous crash of
waves hitting the shore can be heard. Not only was I struck by the primordial
connection I had to my biological ancestors, but also by the ancient power
contained in those pounding waters. As the 2nd law of thermodynamics
states, energy is never lost or gained; it merely changes forms. The energy
powering the ocean before me has always been and will always be. We worry so
often of our own mortality we rarely stop to consider, with reverence, the
incredible nature of our world and, indeed, our universe. If all things are
energy, then all things are eternal.
Wave after wave rolls onto the
shore, in and out, in and out eternally. It dawns on me that this would be the
case regardless of the presence of the human species. Even if we all passed
away, the world would keep spinning quietly through space. We try to deny this,
to make ourselves more important than the other creatures that share this
planet, but the fact is that we are no more important than the fish in the
ocean or the birds in the sky. Although this revelation should make the world
seem uncontrollable, it instead lends itself to a strange kind of ordered calm.
Things happen, and like the waves on the ocean, sometimes you just have to ride
them out.
The icy cold of the water shocks my
skin, sending icy bolts up my spine and shivers down my arms. I watch other
laying on the waves with ease, but for my part I can’t bring myself to sink
fully into the ocean. The salty, fishy scent, so native to the beach, fills my
nose, and as I watch, a seagull marches past and eyes a bag of errant chips
enviously. To my left, the moon begins to rise, a pale glimmer in the bright
light of the sun. I think perhaps that I can see it pulling the ocean like a
puppet master pulls the strings of a marionette. The tides move in cycles with
the moon, just as everything seems to. The earth with its seasons, the planet
around the sun, and day and night moving back and forth. Similarly, we too move
in cycles. So often I hear people talking about “moving forward”. I prefer,
however, to think of it as moving up, like a spiraling staircase. We are always
going somewhere new, but constantly we retrace our steps.
The ocean itself extends far beyond
my vision, its deep greenish-blue marching off into eternity. I’ve been told by
my father that you can watch ships sort of sink as the go over the horizon,
literally around the curvature of the earth. As I look, I can see the tall sails
of boats far out across the water. It is in moments like this when I actually
realize how very small I am. I stumble through my life, concerning myself with
the small problems of how to get to the grocery store and what things will best
strengthen my résumé. My existence centers around me, a sentiment I think most
people can share.
But here, sitting on the collision
of earth, sea and sky, I can say that I’m not thinking of anything mundane.
Instead, I occupy myself with a single thought. When life first began in that
ancient, long ago ocean, it started with one cell in a vast, quiet world.
Similarly, I am one person in a vast, quiet universe. But still, it’s a start.
