“What do you think it’ll be like when you go into the
ocean?” I asked the girls, who were staring, amazed at the magic of water
crashing against the land.
“Super cold,” S yells, excited and scared. The Central Coast’s
water is warmer than the currents in the Bay Area, but it isn’t LA. We had
warned the excited children that the Pacific Ocean would be cold. It was
February, after all. They didn’t care and brought their swimsuits anyway.
“Alright, go on in,” I said. The girls ran to the ocean,
only to run back as the water lapped at their feet. They played this game of
tag with the ocean for a few minutes before the ocean exercised her power and
overcame the girls, soaking them with a big wave they could not outrun. Their
introduction was loving and kind, and the next two hours were spent in the
waves, sitting, running, and jumping as the water washed over their bodies.
The night before, I drove our family of four from Berkeley
to the Central Coast. An hour into the five-hour drive, the girls started
asking if we were there yet. Ima Kate and I laughed at their inexperience with
the trickery that is time, a magic that moves fast only when you want it to
move slowly.
By the end of the drive, their (educational) tablets had
lost some of the magic, and the girls requested songs instead. First, S asked
if we could sing her favorite, We Shall
Overcome. Then, E, asked for her favorite, Miriam’s Song.
We were loud and punchy as we finally pulled off the freeway
at our exit. It was past their bedtimes, but I wasn’t yet ready to go to Great Granny’s
yet. We passed her house and I drove the extra few blocks to the beach. I
parked along a dark strip of road, across the street from the water.
The ocean’s rhythmic crashes enveloped us as we got out of the
car. The power of the ocean was pounded
into us by the sound of every wave. “I’m scared,” E told us, as she gripped my
hand.
“It’s okay, mija. You’re safe with me.” E, tentative, slowly
led me to the grassy bluff that looks over the water. Her wonder constantly
conquers even her most primal fear. It’s a quality I admire in her, and
something I hope will stay with her as she grows older.
The powerful waves crashed against the shore, looking
fearsome in the night sky. It was the first time the girls met the ocean, and
they were humble before it. Above us is G-d reflected in thousands of stars,
each a pinprick that helps light our way.
E is obsessed with G-d.
On the drive up, she found a bright star and said, “I think that’s
G-d.” I tried to explain to her some
Talmudic interpretation that immediately went over her head. “We’re all G-d,” I remind her.
Standing before the ocean, I think to myself, “This is
G-d.” I don’t know what G-d is, but
surely it must be found in the magic that makes up our lives. In the waves that crash against rocks to
create sand, in the capacity of a human to live through tragedy and love again,
in the night sky that twinkles from million miles away.
How do I explain to an eight year old that I believe there’s
a little bit of G-d in everything, that when I say “It’s a G-d thing,” what I
mean is “Somehow the universe came together in a magical way that may or may
not involve a higher being?” All E wants
is the belief that someone is watching out for her, that she has a purpose,
that somehow her pre-destined life will include good. My belief system disregards pre-destiny, and
so often I feel at a loss of words for her.
I worry that our views of G-d will one day split us apart, but I try to
stay optimistic that our love of magic will bring us together.
And there is so much magic.
“Can we sing the song?” E asks.
The four of us begin to serenade the dark ocean, linked
together in hand and in destiny, waiting for a future that surely will be
magical. Our voices are both magnified against the bluff and drowned out by the
monstrous waves.
And the women dancing
with their timbrels
Followed Miriam as she
sang her song (woo woo)
Sing a song for the
one whom we’ve exalted
Miriam and the women
dance and dance the whole night long
After we finish the song, E urges us back to the car. We tell her that tomorrow the ocean will seem
less scary. She doesn’t believe us as we
drive to Great Granny’s house, but she trusts us, and that’s all we can
ask. It’s like magic.
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