Jean MacDonald

(This post is #34 in my Substack series, Metaphor Mondays.)

Late afternoon on July 29, an earthquake measuring 8.8 on the Richter scale struck eastern Russia. I was on my bed, taking a nap. I had spent another exhausting week in Portland with my 90-year-old dad, who was receiving hospice care. He’d been living with my sister and brother-in-law for a year, since his kidney cancer surgery. On that Tuesday, I had headed back to the coast for a few days rest, according to a break schedule my three siblings and I had agreed on.

The earthquake struck at 4:24 pm Pacific time. I woke about an hour later to see the many earthquake alerts. I subscribed to these alerts ever since I first learned how close I live to the Cascade Subduction Zone (Metaphor Monday #12). This earthquake occurred on the Kuril-Kamchatka Subduction Zone. It resulted in a massive shift of water, a typical cause of tsunamis. We were warned hours in advance of the potential for a long distance tsunami to arrive on our coast. Eventually, there was some damage to the U.S West Coast in the early hours of July 30. I went out to the beach in the morning for a bit, which is when I got this photo of the advisory sign.

Even though I was supposed to stay home for a few days, I decided to leave again on that afternoon. My siblings had described a very rough night settling my father into a new hospital bed. I couldn’t relax being two hours away. I knew I wanted to be there for them all at the end. And it came on Thursday, July 31.

Ever since I moved to the coast, the tsunami as metaphor has loomed large. When I contemplate such great forces outside of my control, the fragility of existence is clear. But today I realized that a tsunami is a near perfect metaphor for grief.

Far out at sea, ships might not notice a tsunami. The waves don’t crest and the swells are spread out. But they are quietly moving very fast. When they approach the shore, they pick up height, and then the water is relentless. I’ve watched lots of footage of the recent Indian Ocean and Japanese tsunamis. Manzanita will have some warning before the arrival of the terrifying wave that will inundate our town. But the foreknowledge can’t stop it.

There’s been an undercurrent all the years that I’ve watched the decline in my dad’s vitality. A foreboding: a loss is on its way. I knew I would grieve, but I didn’t know what it would be like.

I’ve come through the initial inundation. The water has receded, exposing the flotsam and jetsam of feelings. Strong love and gratitude for my family. Confusing feelings of resentment and frustration that I didn’t have some kind of movie-quality breakthrough in mutual understanding with my father. Uncertainty and dread—and a hint of the freedom that comes when I am reminded that life is truly short and I need to stop second guessing myself.

Tsunamis come in a “wave train.” It is not one and done, and I know it’s the same for grief and me. But I’m ready to get back to my life.

Above: Bob MacDonald, Sr., my dear dad, on a misty Manzanita Beach morning last summer when I saw my first fogbow. Below: the author with her 25-year-old father in Miami, soaking up the joy of being daddy’s girl and first child.

Metaphor Monday #34

It’s not impermanence that makes us suffer. What makes us suffer is wanting things to be permanent when they are not. – Thich Nhat Hanh

Big Log, pictured above, arrived on Manzanita Beach in January. It was an impressive presence at 32 ft. long and 2.5 ft. in diameter. Winter storms eventually pushed Big Log up next to the dunes in March.

Recently, the sand level has shifted. I have been away from the beach most of the summer, so I notice it during my brief visits home. Now Big Log is practically buried in new sand drifts. (below right)

The same thing is happening to Biggish Log (only 25 ft. long), which arrived in May and hasn’t moved much.

It’s driftwood. I know that impermanence is suggested right there in the name. But I’ll always be a little sad when familiar things change. Or disappear altogether.

Metaphor Monday #33

I am still in Portland, but I managed a quick overnight at the coast. I got out for a misty morning walk. It can be tricky to find enough contrast in the mist, but I was lucky to get a couple of good shots. This seagull cooperated by standing in profile and gazing out at the waves. I like to imagine the lone seagull is lost in contemplation, though it is probably just wondering what’s for breakfast.

I like the combination of serene and mysterious in the photo below, with just a hint of the mountain in the background. You don’t have to see it to know it’s there.

Metaphor Monday #32

A tale of serendipity

I’ve been away unexpectedly from the coast the last week and a half. I have no new photos, and I don’t have the energy to go exploring in Portland, where I’m staying. So I decided to have a look at my July 7 photos from last year. It turns out that it was a significant day for me as a photographer. I captured a photo of two elk in the morning mist that is one of the most popular photos I’ve ever taken.

But I also got a lot of elk butts, like the one above. I took 61 photos in five minutes when I saw the elk in the dune grass. One is pretty spectacular. The other photos are ok at best. I almost never delete photos, and I’m glad I didn’t delete these. It’s good to see what happened that morning. The spectacular photo wasn’t the first one I shot or the last. The conditions weren’t ideal, until they were.

PS. The elk pair photo (shown at the lower right) is available as a greeting card on my Etsy store.

Metaphor Monday #31