From the Quark to the Supernova

I shifted fistfuls of sand from one hand to the other until tiny grains lodged beneath my fingernails. Sitting cross-legged, I regretted wearing tight denim shorts. I smoothed the surface beneath me and traced my name in cursive, then erased it. The beach is quieter at six o'clock.

In the distance, a boy skimboarded while the man I assumed was his father walked behind him wearing a Makos GT shirt, playing "What's Up" by 4 Non Blondes through a tiny JBL speaker. The familiar "What's goin' on?" drifted across the beach, and I wished it were Marvin Gaye instead.

There was an abandoned Tommy Bahama chair, one fisherman, and the muffled soundtrack of conversations too far away to understand, like ambient dialogue in the background of a movie. How cinematic? The waves held the central microphone. The swells were underwhelming and crumbled softly, far less satisfying than the crisp, glassy breaks from the day before.

I fell into a daze watching the horizon. For a brief moment, I imagined diving into the ocean and wondered how far I could swim before my limbs grew heavy, and I was quietly swallowed by the sea. Then I wondered if the skimboarder had ever thought the same thing. How far it would take. The thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came. I recoiled in embarrassment and cringed at myself. At the melodrama of it all.

No one was looking at me sitting alone on the beach, and I hadn't intended for anyone to. Yet I still felt severely performative. A sand crab surfaced beside my toes. I stared at him, and I could have sworn he stared right back. I wondered why I was an optimist about everything except myself.

I've always wished the sun actually set over the ocean on the East Coast. Instead, as the evening wore on, the sun slipped behind me and painted the horizon ahead in warm shades. Somewhere along the way, that fleeting thought about how far I could breaststroke before I drowned disappeared, and I let myself feel wonder.

I looked at the sunset. Really looked at it. Not watching the sunset while really thinking about myself watching the sunset, in the absurdly self-aware way we so often do. I actually, genuinely, just looked. Seagulls. Beach grass. A sunset. How original? I thought. How unique? I hated that my inner monologue was so sarcastic. It felt like a child's drawing of a Jersey Shore summer from memory, and I cringed again at the cliché of it all.

Then two little blond boys ran across the sand with a kite, and an elderly man with a cane and a golden retriever shuffled slowly in the same direction. I wanted to take a picture, so I could remind myself later that I hadn't made it up. For a moment, it was the most magical thing I had ever seen. I hoped they didn't notice me staring.

Somewhere between marveling at the scene and criticizing myself for marveling at it, despite its banality, I remembered a story John Green tells in The Anthropocene Reviewed. He recalls taking a hike with his young son while traveling, hoping to convince the two-year-old to appreciate the breathtaking landscape around them. Instead, his son became fascinated by an ordinary brown oak leaf, one that could have been found almost anywhere in the tristate area in November. As Green continued examining the leaf alongside his son, he found himself, as he quotes The Great Gatsby, "face-to-face with something commensurate to [his] capacity for wonder."

Later Green says:

"From the quark to the supernova, the wonders do not cease. It is our attentiveness that is in short supply, our ability and willingness to do the work that awe requires."

It had been three hours alone on the beach, and the breeze coming off the water had started to leave goosebumps on my arms. Before heading back to my car, I walked down to the shoreline and let the water wash over my feet. The sand shifted beneath me, and I felt almost drunk trying to find my balance.

On the walk back, I passed Barnacle Bill's Amusements and remembered how my dad's bedtime stories had once convinced me that Bill was a real, magical barnacle who somehow watched over the shore. I kept walking, but a block later I stopped. I turned around, walked back past the miniature golf course, stepped into the grill, and ordered one scoop of coffee ice cream.

It was the best ice cream I had ever tasted.

I hope you find yourself face-to-face with your own capacity for wonder, even in the mundane. Especially in the mundane.

Love, El.