SIMULTANEITY

The rough surf has once again exposed the glass.
The glass is found in between the larger rounded beach rocks and river stones. It’s scrap glass thrown into San Vincente creek from the glass shop upstream and carried to the ocean; buried in sand or out beneath the white-horse surf most of the time but exposed like a wet secret during storm tides. I thought as I approached the island of larger smoother stones that held the glass that I would only take the best pieces home with me, only those pieces that spoke to me—that said “Take me ”. The first piece I found was hidden in the shadow of a white rock, in the amber and violet slant of the lowering afternoon sun. It was delft blue, with a white spot on it, sort of like the flat Turkish glass eyes that people hang on their doors as protection from the evil eye.

“This,” I thought “is different.”

I found a few more pieces, a shell, some black rock and a couple of pieces of clear glass; though none quite so nice as my blue eye and then I moved my search over to a new pile of rocks. As I placed a small shell in my hand I heard a sound that I knew meant one of the bits in my hand had fallen. I looked down and saw all of them except my blue eye. How ironic I thought that that one should fall. My hand had only been inches from the ground and I had heard it when it hit the sand, so it had to be right there, but I couldn’t see it. I began combing the stones just underneath my hand and found a little clear piece with some orange stripes on top but not my blue eye. I picked up a large rock and began raking the ground with it churning up all the sand and rocks, knowing that once the glass rolled over that it would be easy to spot. There wasn’t any blue glass here. Well, there were a couple of small sky-blue pieces I found. They weren’t as big, but they had clear color, and looked really good next to the ruby red piece. Soon I had such a handful of glass I had to put it in my pocket in order to continue looking for the missing piece.

I stopped.

In a flash I understood that the beauty and bounty of what I had in my hand was twenty times greater than the lost piece. I realized that losing that piece had enabled me to find more than I had before. Since I’d been searching for something specific I had looked more closely at what was there. Sometimes losing one thing enables you to find something else, something better than what you lost. So loss had enabled me to find something beautiful, and I tried to think that that was all, that that was the lesson for me. I tried to stop there, but something was still wrong.

I still missed the smooth glass I had lost. I had fallen in love with it in an instant, and it was hard to let go. I know it’s on the beach somewhere right now. Maybe someone else will find it or perhaps it will be ground to dust in harsh surf and sand never noticed by anyone again; or maybe the surf will just change it, take it’s special white spot and grind it down so that even if I found it again I wouldn’t recognize it.

It’s so easy to regret my regret, to think that it’s wrong somehow for me to miss a tiny piece of glass, get caught up in how dumb it is. It’s just a piece of glass, after all. I remember once I was regretting a picnic set I hadn’t bought in a thrift store on the Columbia river. It was a navy-blue case, plastic cups and plates inside looking like fine china with bluebirds painted on, tiny salt and pepper shakers held in with little bands. It had been in the shop for a couple of years, according to the owner. I’d put it back, but obsessed about it on the rest of my trip through the northwest, coming back to the same store to find it sold. I imagined that my interest in it had given it a numinous energy that had made it attractive to someone else. When I remembered it, years afterward, I’d said out loud tears streaming down my face: “I want to staunch regret” like regret was somehow bleeding out of me. And my friend had said with love in her voice, “There’s no need to staunch regret.”

Now I think I can allow myself to feel it, allow that regret flood out of me and to wash over me, whether it flows out and disappears or stays with me forever. I feel I can miss what’s gone, miss it utterly and I can simultaneously love the beauty of whatever I have left in my hand, and love it completely.