Beachcombing

Mel breathed deeply, sucking in every morsel of fresh, salty sea-side air her lungs could hold. The early morning sun reached with visible golden arms across the sky, to touch the mainland with her warm and tender touch, and light skipped and danced with glee over the rolling waves. Everything sparkled.

Along the shoreline, rainbows of pastel blue, pink and purple shimmered in the moist sand, and the lacy edging of bubbles and foam glistened like diamonds. This was where the treasure would be found, a rich minefield of overnight offerings to scan, and pick and choose those delights to be feasted on with hungry eyes and searching fingertips.

Every new day brought Mel the chance of finding something breathtaking, something to be savoured and treasured. “What will I find today?” she wondered, as her eyes skimmed ahead and her toes enjoyed the sand’s softness. Some beach treasures whispered in soft voices. Some called her name. Some seemed to recite poetry. Others sang their song. Her eyes and heart were receptive to it all. She was not just looking for shells or stones. She was looking for more – for a story, a prospect, a breath of inspiration and life.

A loud squawk jolted her attention from the sand to the seagull. Stumpy was up to his usual morning capers, and Mel was sure she saw a smile on his beak and a sparkle in his eye that morning. He scuttled alongside her, his little legs forced to go a hundred times faster than hers, just to keep up with her strolling pace. His company was always welcome, and it never failed to amaze her how a little bird who had lost both his webbed feet could overcome the odds, live on his stumps, and have such an appealing personality.

Just then, she saw it. Small. Chalky white. Yes! It was calling her name. She bent down to pick up the pebble that had caught her eye. Turning it between her fingers in the shallows to wash the sand off, Mel discovered it was the texture of rough watercolour paper. She was enchanted by what looked like pencil sketch lines over the surface. The intricacy and creativity in the abstract linework spoke of fine workmanship and incredible mastery of craft. Silver-grey of varying values engaged the chalky white foundation in an interesting conversation, and together, they danced for a viewer’s pleasure. This was an exciting find!

Mel farewelled her little feathered friend, slipped the treasure safely into her pocket and, taking her daily last look around at the beautiful scene, whispered thanks to the Creator of it all. She had received a precious gem – today in the form of a beach pebble, and she was keen to grab a cappuccino at the beachside coffee shop, and get started.

Roberto’s eyebrows greeted her as he walked towards her table and smiling, he asked, “the usual this morning, Mel?” “Yes, please, Roberto,” she replied. Her fingers touched the cool pebble in her pocket and she drew it out and placed it carefully where she’d be able to enjoy it over her cappuccino. Sometimes her found treasures shared their story easily. Sometimes they needed time. Sometimes she needed time. Some took years, and bit by bit would reveal secrets from their place on her shelves. Some just needed to find their home in her collection, and rest in a place where they belonged.

Chalky had a story to tell, she just knew it. What would he have to say? Sipping the delicious chocolate-dusted Italian-perfected coffee, she looked closely at the silver-grey lines. Some were delicate and a little wobbly. Others were strong and steady. They seemed to be very directional – the long lines moved from edge to edge fairly horizontally across the width of the pebble, and the shorter vertical lines seemed to fit between these. The lines looked remarkably like a pencil sketch, and Mel imagined God sitting there with his pencil, decorating this miniscule little pebble. The thought made her chuckle.

She turned the pebble over, noticing the other side was slightly more rounded, with fewer pencil lines, and these were all long horizontals, with very few of the shorter verticals, but many more very fine, pale scribbly lines between the long horizontals. One line split into a branching effect – but what was is that Chalky wanted to tell her? She turned it over again, deciding she preferred the flatter, more intricately decorated side. Mel’s fingertips enjoyed the cool and slightly rough texture, and she rolled it around, rubbing it thoughtfully against her fingers, trying to find its story. Placing it back on the table, she moved it around so that the long lines ran vertically, and she instantly recognised the landscape. The trees. The silver birch trees from her garden in Johannesburg. There was the opening, the way in. Chalky had opened the door.

Downing the last gulp of coffee, she called, “See ya later, Roberto!” and waved as he stood watching her go. Back in the studio, Mel placed Chalky on the shelf. She lit the fragrant candle, turned on the music, slipped into something comfortable, and stepped into sacred space. She gathered together a sheet of rough watercolour paper, graphite and charcoal sticks, silver ink and selected a few acrylic neutrals before placing the enormous canvas onto the floor. This was how she worked, kneeling and bending her back into the task at hand, pouring every ounce of her energy and heart into the painting. Paper ripped into shreds gave nice feathered edges and a natural, organic feel to the support. Paint flowed, ink moved and swirled, and finishing layers of graphite and charcoal were glazed and then sanded back to produce a piece filled with light and freedom, movement and forest whispers. “This,” she thought, “is painting as prayer.”

Setting it on the easel, she stepped back from the work, and allowed it to speak. The silver birch trees from her garden in Johannesburg whispered of life when her children were babies. She would lay them on a blanket under the trees, and they would gurgle happily, talking to the leaves and giving her precious moments to work in her garden, pick flowers, plant annuals, or place a piece of sculpture. It was in this garden that the children learned to walk – pushing a toy lawnmower along, and as toddlers, they loved playing in the sandpit she built beneath the birches. Johannesburg winters were perfect for silver birches, when they’d stand in naked silver splendour and worship with arms outstretched to pale winter skies.

It was beautiful. But there was more. The Birches seemed to morph in front of her eyes, a hazy layer moving softly, shifting the entire landscape… rolling over the stone… and yes, there they were! Chalky had whispered this story, but Mel hadn’t heard. But now she saw clearly. Gum trees stood tall and strong, embodying the essence of Australia and the character of her people. Deeply rooted, they are able to withstand storms and droughts; wonderfully fragranced, sailors report the smell of Eucalyptus from far offshore; and some species bear silver scribbles from a little beetle whose artwork surpasses that of any of the great master’s. Mel’s home was now among these gum trees.

This was where her children had a swing from a bough of the giant gum tree at the top of the hill – a swing that felt like it was on top of the world. This was where her children had their tree house between four gum trees and, when he was a puppy, they would hoist Yoda up inside a rubbish bin, using a self-devised pulley system. This was where her children had become adults, and the eldest two had left home. Now only one remained in the nest. Mel breathed in the acceptance that this was life, this other side of the coin, and both sides belonged together. Babies are born to grow up, and eventually leave home. And all was well.

She smiled at the thought that the silver birches in her Johannesburg garden had morphed into gum trees on her Palmwoods acreage. There was place in the painting for both gum and silver birch, and it was all set against the rolling of a stone. The rolling of the stone brought new life, new vision and hope. That ancient story tied into this one. And all was well.

The painting lay quietly in her gaze, and Mel pondered on the depths it held. She went and picked up Chalky, and rolling the stone between her fingertips, she heard the clear whisper, “Seeing the chance… taking the chance… New life for old – that’s what beachcombing is all about…”

Mel stepped outside, just as the setting sun’s rays touched the gum tree outside the studio, igniting it with a fiery orange glow. She leaned down to play with Yoda’s soft furry ears, which shone with the same orange glow as the gum tree. “Let’s go home.”