Layers, cracks, and waves

This afternoon as I was walking on Sneeoosh Beach I looked at all the weather beaten driftwood, and this particular tree stomp attracted my attention, not only because of the beautiful sculpture it was, but because of its intricate, complicated structure. All these limbs, tied together by age, all these concentric circles, layers and layers of growth that reminded me of the layers of my life, the meanders and the cracks, accidents of life, that all led to the centre of the stomp, that was a charred heart shaped core. The heart itself had many layers, that reminded me of all the loves of my life, but also of all the different kinds of love, but never mind, these concentric circles on the heart had kept multiplying, and growing outwards, all its life, this tree had kept growing outwards and upwards, by all weathers, rain or shine, it had clung to life, at least until someone cut it. Now it is there, lying on its side, as a monster piece in a natural history museum, formidable colossus, that, even dead, - is it dead? – inspires respect.
Then beyond, my eyes fell on the waves, teal and silver, iridescent from the pale winter sun, a living monster this one, growing and growing and multiplying endlessly, with the unwavering patience and stubbornness of the very essence of Life, water, for this, this is Waterland.
I looked, and looked again, or rather contemplated, the formidable work of the ebb and flow, here the top of the wave, dark teal, like the backbone of a whale, then a golden curve capturing the light, then a perfect silver roll finally releasing its foam splashing like a million pearls run loose from a broken necklace.
I looked, and listened to the waves, the wind battering my face, bringing to me the smell of iodine.
Then I looked up, to the grand theater above, of the Pacific Northwest skies, unfolding a debauchery of white cotton balls, heavy dark blue cloaks, curtains that here and there the wind would push open to disclose a foretaste of spring.