{"id":270733,"date":"2024-08-05T12:00:59","date_gmt":"2024-08-05T11:00:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/?p=270733"},"modified":"2024-08-01T05:51:50","modified_gmt":"2024-08-01T04:51:50","slug":"the-beach-and-the-soul-anne-morrow-lindbergh-on-the-benedictions-of-the-sea","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/2024\/08\/the-beach-and-the-soul-anne-morrow-lindbergh-on-the-benedictions-of-the-sea\/","title":{"rendered":"The Beach and the Soul: Anne Morrow Lindbergh on the Benedictions of the Sea"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>\u201cWithout a body there\u2019s no soul and without the latter there\u2019s no way to speak about the sea,\u201d the poet, painter, and philosopher Etel Adnan wrote in her superb meditation on the sea and the soul<\/a>. \u201cNo one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry,\u201d Rachel Carson insisted<\/a>. Because the beach is where the body meets the sea, it is a place of encounter with the native poetry of the soul \u2014 a place to be \u201cwashed of all the excrescences of so-called civilization, which includes the incapacity to be happy under any circumstances,\u201d as Ana\u00efs Nin observed in contemplating the beach as training ground for presence<\/a>. It was on the beach alone at night that Walt Whitman touched eternity<\/a>.<\/p>\n

One summer in the early 1950s, Anne Morrow Lindbergh<\/strong> (June 22, 1906\u2013February 7, 2001) left her husband and five children home in the suburbs of New York City and headed for beach in search of communion with her own soul. In Gift from the Sea<\/em><\/strong><\/a> (public library<\/em><\/a>), in lovely prose winged with the poetic, she channels what she found through the patient work of surrender and shimmering receptivity.<\/p>\n

\"\"
Anne Morrow Lindbergh<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

Lindbergh writes:<\/p>\n

The beach is not the place to work; to read, write or think\u2026 Too warm, too damp, too soft for any real mental discipline or sharp flights of spirit\u2026 The books remain unread, the pencils break their points and the pads rest smooth and unblemished as the cloudless sky. No reading, no writing, no thoughts even\u2014at least, not at first.<\/p>\n

At first, the tired body takes over completely\u2026 One is forced against one\u2019s mind, against all tidy resolutions, back into the primeval rhythms of the seashore. Rollers on the beach, wind in the pines, the slow flapping of herons across sand dunes, drown out the hectic rhythms of city and suburb, time tables and schedules. One falls under their spell, relaxes, stretches out prone. One becomes, in fact, like the element on which one lies, flattened by the sea; bare, open, empty as the beach, erased by today\u2019s tides of all yesterday\u2019s scribblings.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"\"<\/a>
Spring Moon at Ninomiya Beach<\/em>, 1931 \u2014 one of Hasui Kawase\u2019s vintage Japanese woodblocks<\/a>. (Available as a print<\/a>.)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

But this elemental surrender does not come easily, or quickly, to the captive of civilization and all its deadening compulsions of productivity<\/a> \u2014 it takes time to surrender. For Lindbergh, in an era when airplanes were young and the Internet unborn, that time was two weeks. I wonder what the technology-induced inflation would be today.<\/p>\n

She writes:<\/p>\n

And then, some morning in the second week, the mind wakes, comes to life again. Not in a city sense \u2014 no \u2014 but beach-wise. It begins to drift, to play, to turn over in gentle careless rolls like those lazy waves on the beach. One never knows what chance treasures these easy unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind; what perfectly rounded stone, what rare shell from the ocean floor. Perhaps a channelled whelk, a moon shell or even an argonaut.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\"\"<\/a>
Argonauta argo<\/em> by Frederick Nodder, 1793. (Available as a print<\/a> and as a bath mat<\/a>, benefitting The Nature Conservancy.)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

In a caveat central to every meditation practice and every true unbidden love, she adds:<\/p>\n

But it must not be sought for or \u2014 heaven forbid! \u2014 dug for. No, no dredging of the sea bottom here. That would defeat one\u2019s purpose. The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach \u2014 waiting for a gift from the sea.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Complement with Rachel Carson on the ocean and the meaning of life<\/a>, then revisit Lindbergh on embracing change in relationships<\/a>.<\/p>\n

_______________________________________<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>My name is <\/em>Maria Popova<\/em><\/a> \u2014 a reader, a wonderer, and a lover of reality who makes sense of the world and herself through the essential inner dialogue that is the act of writing. <\/em>The Marginalian<\/em> (which <\/em>bore the unbearable name <\/em>Brain Pickings<\/a> for its first 15 years) is my one-woman labor of love, exploring what it means to live a decent, inspired, substantive life of purpose and gladness. Founded in 2006 as a weekly email to seven friends, eventually brought online and now included in the Library of Congress permanent web archive, it is a record of my own becoming as a person \u2014 intellectually, creatively, spiritually, poetically \u2014 drawn from my extended marginalia on the search for meaning across literature, science, art, philosophy, and the various other tendrils of human thought and feeling. A private inquiry irradiated by the ultimate question, the great quickening of wonderment that binds us all: What is all this? (<\/em>More<\/em><\/a>\u2026) <\/em><\/p>\n

Go to Original \u2013 themarginalian.org<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cNo one could write truthfully about the sea and leave out the poetry.\u201d Because the beach is where the body meets the sea, it is a place of encounter with the native poetry of the soul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":106597,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[63],"tags":[1177,896,868,2540,805],"class_list":["post-270733","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-inspirational","tag-inspirational","tag-oceans","tag-poetry","tag-spirit-soul","tag-spirituality"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/270733","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=270733"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/270733\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":270736,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/270733\/revisions\/270736"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/106597"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=270733"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=270733"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=270733"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}