warts and all

I am writing from a beautiful hotel in downtown Chico, California. Last night I attended the second meeting of the creative nonfiction workshop that I am taking through UC Extension. We began with a discussion of two portraits. Then we exchanged our own with a partner. Mary Roach, bestselling author of Stiff: The Curious Life of Cadavers treated us with anecdotes and advice about writing.

As I explained last week, I am posting my writing assignments on my blog in order to open myself up to constructive criticism and to try to accept the notion that it's okay not to be successful on the first try of anything. I am not perfect, no one expects me to be, and that's fine. Maybe if I keep chanting that, I'll start to believe it. In any case, here's my first draft of a portrait -- warts and all.

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On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. Fortunately, this was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pants cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. The four-legged varieties cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.

Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, neatly arranged white figures dotted the landscape. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Curiosity drew me toward the formation. Suddenly, I noticed the rich, knitted patterns of bird tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones. At that moment, I regretted leaving my camera at home. With the sun positioned low on the horizon, the lighting would have been perfect for a close-up shot. How many others had missed their chance at a prize-winning photograph that day?

What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene. Captivated by the flock of little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, I spent the next fifteen minutes observing them, staying motionless in hopes that they'd come closer. I didn't know what they were, but I had crossed paths – literally – with one of them before. In our first encounter, I stalked one of them for a while without even knowing it. Because their bodies are brownish except for their white undersides, they blend into the sand unless you're looking at them from the front or sides.

When I walk on the beach, I often find myself walking in the tracks left by the trucks of beach patrol. Perhaps my legs gravitate toward those machine-made tracks because it’s easier to walk in them. Or perhaps I am just a conformist who must stay within the lines. In any case, one day I noticed that another had walked the same tracks before me. Nothing had yet marred the freshly created prints; I was the destroyer-to-be. Looking ahead, I noticed movement away from me. I could only confirm the nearly invisible artist’s existence by the tracks it created in its immediate wake.

What I love about these birds is the way that they move. Their feet move incredibly fast when they're walking, yet their heads stay very still. It invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings. Observing the flock, I was struck by the way the birds’ collective movement reminded me of water. Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow from one place to another. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: little birds moving away from the big bird in concentric circles.