There is a poem, written in the 16th century, that I think of every time I go to the beach. I have my dear, departed grandfather to thank for knowing it. He passed on his love of classic poetry and literature to his children, and in turn I grew up a little conflicted on spelling, word usage, and a few other archaic sentiments. I remember wondering about that poem as a child, imagining a man so in love with a woman, or so obsessed, that he needed to immortalize her, and why he would pick something that washes away in the first place. He seemed kind of simple, but really passionate!
If you think writing your name in the sand is some marvelous “special” thing you do, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, but some English dude was doing it about 450 years ago.
But don’t worry if you’re one of those sand swooners. We do it too. My husband, especially, loves to find a good stick and log our names, the year, and location, and then becomes almost giddy watching it wash away. Other times he pesters me until I do it, then gleefully waits for the tide.
Amoretti LXXV: One Day I Wrote her Name
I’m feeling particularly sentimental today, thinking of my husband’s childlike bliss, Edmund Spenser’s undying love, and listening to the wind bringing Springtime to the world outside my office window. A puffed-up mousebird clings to a branch upside-down, bouncing in the breeze, until he has a turn at the pear on my feeder.
Happy Thursday, readers!