I live on the most toxic beach in California. According to Friday's issue of the San Francisco Chronicle, the water at my beach failed 57% of the tests they did to check it. The water is so bad it can cause skin rashes and even illness. Fortunately, it's not likely to kill us.
The news was right there in San Francisco Chronicle's "Green Guide" next to a picture of David and me walking on the beach one magical evening. Unfortunately, the article was not about the way love shows up whether we're lost or found. It was about pollution.
I knew it was coming. The woman who took our photo told us. That evening when she captured our image, my initial reaction was fear. I wondered whether it was time to move my kids one more time in our search for some place safe.
I did not. Instead, I attempted to make my peace with the fact that I live next to polluted ocean water. This grace filled cottage that I love - that has loved me into healing - that has given my boys so much joy - that has grounded us all in love for the earth - it turns out - is located next to some pretty dirty water.
It's the birds that are causing it. Bird shit, to be precise. Too much of it. Apparently, the dumps off of Route 92 draw the birds. Then they come here to do their thing.
The article said that we're not supposed to touch the water. That's what I was thinking about this morning as I filled my glass jar with this curious mixture of grace and toxicity. It has been my practice since moving here to walk out in the morning and gather a little bit of ocean. I place the water in bowls throughout the house - to clear energy, to spread blessing - mostly to remind me that there is a gigantic sea of love and beauty right outside my window if I feel like looking up to see.
So there I was collecting this day's bowl of holiness and shit, wondering, is the blessing negated by the shit?
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