MARCO BEACCO - 24 hours later
September 8, 2018
24-hours plus, since word was received that we no longer have Marc Beacco with us; that is, among those we consider “The Living.” So, being glad for the morning’s minus tide, I did what I regularly do at Blake Island, I walked the eastern beach and searched for agate—a frequently fruitless endeavor.
This time, I invited God and Marco to join me, acknowledging that my basket of hope is most usually empty by the time of my beach-hunt resignation. But today, finding agate matters. It seems only fair that when my heart hurts, a blessing is due. Many of you know how that reasoning goes. So, this time, I said to God and Marco, “Look, you find it; I’ll pick it up.” That should be easy, I thought. Greater things are ascribed to the spiritual realm. What could be more wonderful today than to be guided, aided, gifted in grief by inexplicable assistance.
So (the third “so,”) I set out. The beach is acres wide at a minus tide; stacks of rocks rival fields of wheat in the heartland—more than the eye can behold, and somewhere in that riot of rocks lie bits of agate. No question. No question, and no luck. Neither Marco nor God found my suggestion worthy of response, or found the ideal I sought worth their attention.
But this . . .
Here’s what I thought as I left the beach with a pile of un-agate rocks in hand—“Ideal” is a great goal but seldom is the “Ideal” the reward of effort or search or desire. What matters is what is discovered along the way to missing the ideal. The reward of my morning’s search was that I noticed the gull out at water’s edge did get an orange starfish to eat; two raccoons further down the beach did manage to dig up some clams, and I had the pleasure of hearing the surf, of watching vessels on the Sound. I love that an osprey pair managed to spear a fish that got carried off to young that are cheeping the news of the parent’s arrival somewhere in the tall trees on shore.
Barbara—look at what you did find when you didn’t find agate.
“Oh, yay! A green rock.” I love finding truly green rocks.
“What’s that? Barnacle bases on that black rock?” I mean to investigate.
The bag full of delightful un-agate is pictured above. The wind in my hair, the quiet mood, the thoughts of God and Marco, the beauty of place, the sadness of heart, the curiosity stirred by not succeeding. I risk a massive mistake if while seeking the ideal, keeping Marco longer, I miss the gifts along the way of not reaching it.
