Not just a beach rock

Not just a beach rock
by Gisèle Thériault

Champagne and beer: the two great elements that make life great... really! And do you know what I love? What I really, seriously love? Of course you don’t. I worship the feeling I get right before a weekend road trip with my good friends. You know, the anticipation of having fun, not worrying about the dreadful Monday that looms around the corner… that’s pure joy. Even the journey to the destination is always great. Actually, why don’t I just tell you all about the last road trip I took.

Four of my friends, two of them being newlyweds, boarded the car on a Friday afternoon, ready for takeoff. (But only after fixing the flat tire…and boy, doesn’t that drive me nuts!) On the way up to our destination, we stopped at a local pizza place and we each ordered a humongous slice of grease-dripping garlic pizza. It’s safe to say the car we were travelling in soon had a peculiar smell. But it didn’t matter. Why? Because we were all going to be drunk as sailors soon enough, and, as I told my buddies, life is merely too short to fret about garlic. As the American playwright Thornton Wilder once said: “My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it’s on your plate – that’s my philosophy.” Mine too.

So we basically spent the day walking around in those typical small-town gift shops, and then we headed down to the shoreline. There we hiked in a wooded trail for about 20 minutes and finally ended up at a beautiful waterfall. The water cascaded and crashed unto rocks below. Those rocks were covered with some kind of green goo. Normally, I would’ve been disgusted. I have a weird problem with slimy substances, but in this case, it was beautiful. The bright green slime created a gorgeous contrast against the grey rocks. I tried to concentrate on the sounds that this was creating, running and splashing water, together. My friends were taking pictures of this, as though it was something absolutely supernatural. Yet, it’s as natural as you’ll ever get; the liquidly satin feel of the water dancing on the jagged surface of the boulders. Henry David Thoreau once said: “The mountain seemed a vast aggregation of loose rocks, as if some time it had rained rocks, and they lay as they fell on the mountain sides, nowhere fairly at rest, but leaning on each other, all rocking stones, with cavities between, but scarcely any soil or smoother shelf.” Add some water, and you have my waterfall.

Then we followed this with a leisurely stroll towards the ocean, which wasn’t very far at all… although it seemed quite far to me as I had to step under and over the remains of an old ship wearing flip flops. Oh, the many ridiculous things I do for fashion. This beach lay between two, tall walls of rocks, or as other people call them, cliffs. We were in a cove, with the horizon staring at us straight ahead. There we started to skip rocks in the ocean. I’m sure some of you have done this at least once in your lifetime. You try so hard to find the perfect, flattened rock, and chuck it out to the water, in hopes that your rock will skip on the water’s surface more times than anybody else’s. I’ve never been good at this. This might be because I don’t put enough effort into my throwing; I essentially just casually toss the stone. When I was much younger (although I’m not old), my sister kept on telling me that it was all about the flick of the wrist. I still think she’s wrong. Anyways, I suppose my rocks don’t gather enough speed to skip on top of the water, kinda’ like Jesus taking a stroll on the water…My rocks just sink down to the bottom in one heavy swoop. Maybe I’d rather not upset the water, not cause too many ripples. Maybe that’s just my nature, to try and keep the peace. My overactive mind is now thinking that the rock is indecisive, like me… not ever sure of what to do…
So, I sat on the shore’s edge instead. This beach had no sand, only rocks. Almost unconsciously, I started sifting through the rocks. Most of the surface rocks were of a light grey, the grey of a cloudy sky on a rainy afternoon, and they were about the size of a football. They all seemed identical, all the same shape. It was like they all belonged to the same gene pool. I lifted a few of the heavier rocks, and, yes, in my amazement, to find small, peculiar rocks underneath. These rocks were different. These were colourful, and unique. They were also wet, as they no doubt often hide underneath the big rocks all day, with no access to the sun rays, no hope of drying; yet, the wetness was bringing forth the exuberance of the colors in the rock. I started to pick some out, placed them by my side. It felt as though I had found a treasure; I thought I was the only one that had ever seen these beautiful rocks. But, mind you, they were only rocks, and I knew this. Before we continue, I’d like to quickly tell you about something that happened the other day, when I was sitting in class (yeah, I’m in university, therefore a “moneyless” human being). Anyways, we were having a discussion about the great Wordsworth, old Bill as I like to call him. We were talking about his love and devotion to Nature. I thought to myself: Oh my, I could be related to this guy! I know, weird thought. But, I also relate nature to happiness. Peacefulness resides in the air I breathe, and the natural ground beneath my feet…not pavement. (a quote by me).
Oh...the things school teaches you…

“Be happy while y’er leevin,
For y’er a lang time deid.” - Scottish proverb

Nevertheless, it was a beautiful evening. The sky was starting to turn a coppery orange. My friend commented on how fast the summer had gone by. It’s strange how many people say that. It’s almost as though saying it out loud makes it easier to accept.
So there I was, sitting on one of those plain, grey rocks, looking out at the water, watching almost mindlessly my friends skipping rocks, while I held my new-found beautiful rocks, or my future paper weights, to be exact. And I realized that it’s time like those that we don’t have enough of; to actually take the time to pick out rocks, and to be aware of my surroundings, of nature and my friends. It was comforting. These rocks weren’t simply the result of sediments being fused together after thousands of years, and now living as one rock. Rocks seem to be about as lifeless as you can get, yet without them, the world would not be as it is, obviously. To appreciate a rock is to not only appreciate nature, but it also means you’ve found a deeper gratitude of what life is about; day after day is spent on fulfilling our routines and obligations. My mother often says: “Oh my, how time is going by fast.” Time is not going by any faster, but useless preoccupations that take over our lives makes it seem so. The French philosopher Denis Diderot perhaps says it best: “How old the world is! I walk between two eternities.... What is my fleeting existence in comparison with that decaying rock, that valley digging its channel ever deeper, that forest that is tottering and those great masses above my head about to fall? I see the marble of tombs crumbling into dust; and yet I don’t want to die!” To sit there and not feel guilty about ‘wasting my time’ picking through the beach rocks, I realized within myself that whether my life was going to be short or not, I was going to try my best to do just as I pleased.

“Keep true to the dreams of thy youth.” - Johann von Schiller

I remember when I was just a young girl dressed in my matching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweat suit (yeah, so I was a tomboy); my almost “white-blond” hair pulled back with my favourite neon pink scrunchie (ahh... pink… so I was not totally tomboy). I would play outside for hours on end with my best friend Réjean. We would “borrow” gravel from our driveway and create miniature mountains and roadways, on which we’d “play drive” our Tonka trucks and matchbox cars. It was the best time. At suppertime my mom would yell for me to go back inside to eat. Eating my sandwich (I was a fussy eater), I’d often bite into tiny pebbles, souvenirs from my afternoon adventure that got stuck in the crevices of my hands. The next day would roll around like a freight train rolling around the bend; a new start of a day, a new start to mine and Réjean’s ambitious task of creating roads.
As I sat on that beach, I thought of that old saying: “You’re always a kid at heart.” And I truly still was.
Sure, I was older. I’d seen things and experienced things that had shaped my life. I didn’t wear the faces of the Ninja Turtles on my clothes anymore (although I still think they’re pretty darn cool), and the other day, I swear I saw a grey hair…My thoughts weren’t, or aren’t, so innocent. But my intentions were the same; to play with the rocks and think of nothing else.
Now, to bring you back to my little paradise in the cove…

Digging deeper and deeper through the rocks, it was as if I knew I’d find something better. My friend Alan said: “Ah, there’s the archaeologist in you, always looking for something that may not even be there.” To me, the mystery of it all made the experience worth it. Although the rocks I did find were in fact great, so were the bigger rocks that protected them from the crazy Bay of Fundy tides. I wanted to believe that our society could be like this; the ‘head-honchos’ protecting the ‘little guys’. But then again, I’ve also always wanted to believe that chocolate is 100% fat-free. And we both know that’s not completely true…
“Sit in reverie, and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.” - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
You know what? We even had a soundtrack playing for us that day. You know the sound that the rushing water makes as it runs over the pebbles of the shore? And when you add the drum-beat of the crashing surf…we had music. Who needs a symphony, an orchestra?

So, what really made these Bay of Fundy rocks so special? Interestingly enough, to me anyways, I discovered that most of these rocks probably come from an immense lava flow sequence that covers most of the Fundy basin. It was formed approximately at the Triassic-Jurassic boundary, about 200 million years ago. Isn’t that amazing? Ok… so maybe it’s not that extraordinary, but it sure does impress me. No doubt these rocks, this earth, will be here long after I’ve gone. I secretly hoped that my children would get the chance to breathe in this magnificent sea air, just as I was doing…
What was that? Oh. My stomach was talking. Hunger has a way of letting us know its presence... so…

After the sun set, we returned to town to eat fish and chips at a local pub, the Ye Olde Town Pub. And we drank beer. Finally! I’ve always been intrigued by that pub name. So typically “pub-ish”. It almost sounds Irish. I think I have a secret amusement at trying to pronounce it, fast. Tongue twister, my friend. Then we returned to the motel, where we spent the entire night getting absolutely intoxicated, laughing and sharing stories in the hot tubs. A fantastic combination of champagne, wine, beer and rum. And some Bob Marley playing in the background. Beautiful, and comical, memories were made.

When I returned home late that Sunday evening, I felt content, not having spent the weekend worried about school or money. I put my colossal purse down on the floor and heard a loud thump. I opened the zipper to find my rocks. I set them on a shelf in my room, where they still stand today as a reminder to appreciate everything about life, the good and the bad, and, to always be strong as a rock. To savour life as I savour chocolate cake.
Oh! Carpe Diem! (that overused talk/underused in action saying). Seize the day’s adventures…and all that jazz.
Now that I think of it a little, I should’ve been born a few decades ago, as a free-thinking hippie & philosopher. Maybe a folk-singer, spend my days writing about the simple life…or maybe to have been born in the 19th century as a Romantic writer, Wordsworth’s sidekick.
Aah...maybe not.
But does this tell me what I am? What I’d like to be?
I find myself laughing just now, because I mean seriously, to think that rocks are metaphors for the universal meaning of: Appreciating Life? A little bit ‘out there’, sure. But, I swear I’ve not lost my mind. Not yet. I’ve only started to discover it. And so, there you go; I wrote an essay about rocks. Who, in their right minds, writes about rocks? Well I do, for one. And yeah, the sheer notion of it is absurd. Yet, the fact that you’ve read my essay, until the end, proves that great minds think alike, right? After all:
They ain’t just beach rocks.