Rolling in Circles

But never reaching the edge

Transitions are hard. Which means summer is hard. Whenever I pop out of routine, I have to claw my way back.

It might be neurodivergence, or an echo of long ago when every little thing upset my nest. Whatever the case, weeks into summer, I still haven’t found my stride.

First there was the Seattle road trip, then the onslaught of teenagers home for summer, then the family jaunt to Detroit Lake where I was driver/planner/chef, and today it’s my music-collecting partner trying out vintage vinyl. Noise and bustle and humans. The effects unsettle me.

When I’m unsettled, I go hiking. Doug fir trunks are solid and branches nod in encouragement. The ocean lulls. The shore spreads wide and smooth inviting my errant stagger, unfurling one tide after another. All of this I witness along Heceta Lighthouse trail just fifteen minutes from home.

My mainstay hike at the Oregon Coast, with rainbow or whale or sea lion sightings.

I’ve told you about the robin’s egg. It showed up when I needed reassurance desperately.

But here’s what I found in the forest above the lighthouse this morning.

This searing blue caught my eye . . . as gaudy as a speckled candy Easter egg. I couldn’t get over how huge it was, and how oddly shaped. If it was robin, it was a monster robin.

Turns out it’s a common murre. Surprising since it wasn’t near the ocean rock where these birds make their home, but a mile away in the forest with all the undergrowth.

Common murre eggs are brilliant and large and conical. The seabird lays a single egg in breeding season—not in a nest but upon a bare rock ledge. The conical shape allows the egg to roll in circles rather than along a straight path. Otherwise, it would tumble over the edge and into the sea. The wonkiness is protection. Makes me think of the slogan for those fat little toy people of the 70s: “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.”

When I’m unsettled, I lower expectations. I let go aspirations. Instead of a long project I may choose to work on something short. Very short.

This choice leads to some good news. I have a new story published, first place in the flash fiction contest for Penstricken (page 34).

Maybe it’s all right that I’m rolling around in this messy way this summer. I haven’t crashed onto the rocks below. My back-and-forth indicates that who I am is more important than what I do—how many ways can the Universe give me this lesson? Thousands, evidently. I still need it, as I am a rather strange bird.

Heceta Head is home to common murres, cormorants, and gulls, while tufted puffins have become rare.