Newport and the March

January is a busy month; everything is starting up again, including school. On Friday, after a wild week on meetings and piles of papers, Mark and I fled to the coast. It was our 24^th anniversary and we have a standing two nights at the Sylvia Beach Hotel. It was pouring out. The Ark needed air in her front right tire, so it was pulling to the right, and, in the confusion, I hit the hazards without thinking and we crept to the gas station with all of the blinkers on. Once everything was sorted out, we drove over the coast range. It was a dark and stormy evening, to be sure, and I never knew exactly where we were. We collapsed in our room, ate dinner, and went to bed. Outside, the wind and rain blew around the building. We had the window open and the curtains and door rattled until I stuffed a washcloth into the door to silence it. It was not a restful night. I woke up four or five times to consider how to deal with climate change and the SOP. How do we move from sustainability as a hobby to an integral part of all of our actions?

The next morning, all was still. The storm had blown over, leaving a deep white cloudy fog over the coast, much like my sleepy brain. The world was quiet. The ocean, under the pull of a full moon, was high. Waves crashed on the sand higher than I have ever seen them. We walked out and the foam swirled around my rain boots, adding to my sense of dislocation. Watching the water, my head spun. A small tent was tucked in the dunes. Someone was living on the beach in the middle of the winter.

At 12:30, we walked over to the Lincoln County Women’s Rally and March, starting at the courthouse. It is good to go to someone else’s rally. No one knows who you are, but there is still a feeling of welcome and solidarity. An older man was singing as people milled around, wearing pink knit hats, admiring signs, patting dogs. At few minutes past the half hour, the leaders mounted the steps, laid out the route, and reminded us to not engage with trouble. The head organizer was a tall woman in her fifties with grey and black curls, a rainbow pussy hat, and strong stance—impressive and warm at the same time. She led the group in the pledge that they spoke every year, nodded to me as a comrade as she passed, and led us out and down highway 101.

I’d never thought about the power of walking down the sidewalk of a major highway. Our marches are always in town. We were more on the edge, more prominent, more noticeable. People honked, waved, thumbs up, thumbs down. The Marchers, as always, walked slowly and fairly quietly, chatting with their neighbors, waving at cars, not chanting despite several attempts. “The president is speaking,” someone said. “”Tweating?” another asked. But no one cared to check their phones to see what was up. We were together, walking. This crowd, because it was the third year, knew that marching, although fun and a chance to talk, was not the most important action they could, or would, take. Several used the time to update each other on other actions, like banning pesticides being sprayed on logged over areas. People referred to voting, letter writing, persisting.

After the march, we headed back to the hotel. The sun was trying to break through, but the sea was still stormy.  I didn’t have better answers to my questions about climate change and the SOP, but I had been reminded, once again, about the power of community and the need to speak up.