TANNER'S STONES

TANNER’S STONES

Outside the open door to our balcony overlooking the Pacific the sky is just turning a soft coral. A fishing boat makes its way out through the channel to the ocean, and over it a V of more than twenty pelicans are black against the almost twilight. We just returned from a delicious wild salmon dinner at Smuggler’s Cove Restaurant, and John was hoping to watch Monday Night Football, but now it seems the game may already be over. At this time of evening the ocean changes moods by the minute. It’s so good to be here. Maybe we will come here every month for a few days, during this time of optimum strength before the next chemo treatment. It’s an option, a joy available to us but not exactly something to be scheduled but rather moved towards as one leans gladly into the greatest joy. John just said he is relaxing. It’s as though we are out of the world – just the ocean and this room and the sunset. Our cell phone doesn’t even work here.

Just before dinner we went for a walk on the beach—a long way, given how weak John’s legs have been. We always look for stones on this beach, and John teases that I may only bring home ONE stone. Understand that I have little piles of stones here and there all around the house. They are from every beach we’ve ever visited, and I remember all of them. You might remember that I even wrote a book about stones…FINDING STONE. Usually we look for white stones, the smooth quartz that can be found on these beaches. We walked slowly, close to the surf which is more gentle than we usually find here. There is no moon; the tides are low.

Suddenly a little red-headed boy was crouching at the edges of the waves. "You looking for white stones?" I admitted it, yes, I was. He must have been about four years old. His dad helped him, pointing out first one white stone, then another. Soon he was running out into the waves, crouching, returning with white stones and presenting them to me. A wealth of stones, wet and shining with ocean. "What is your name?" I wanted to know.

"Tanner," he grinned, handing me yet another stone. Handfuls of stones. Gleaming. Gritty with sand. Tanner’s face beamed. Never could it be enough. An infinity of stones. He dug them up from the sand. A glimmer of white and he’d be off. John finally had to make his way back up the beach towards the walk that led to the motel.

"I need to go," I told Tanner, "to join my husband. Thank you for the stones; I’m very glad to have met you." He said goodbye. And I turned, my hands full of Tanner’s stones, and up the beach I sat down next to John on a big cedar log. We laid the stones out to dry, and talked about the little red-headed boy with the round face and freckles and …eagerness. We talked about his eagerness to give joy in the form of stones. "I can’t take just one," I told John. As I touched first one and then another of the stones on the log.

Suddenly, running towards us from the ocean up to the log, we saw Tanner. He was weighed down, his arms filled with stones. "I found MORE," he called. Then he was standing in front of me, his arms and face caked with sand, his eyes eager, shining. He handed them to me, one by one. "This one looks like a geode," I said. And "See, Tanner," said his dad, "she knows her stones."

I might see his face for the rest of my life, the joy in it, that bright red hair—as though he belonged to us somehow, some little spark of life, some newness, some gift of continuing with eager joy this work, this play of living.

We walked back slowly. John bent, as though there were no rule about how many stones, and picked up another. "It is a perfect tear," he said, placing it in my hand.

I’ll bind it with silver and wear it around my neck.