My front and back yard are water. I’m rocked with the motion of the tides, and the bobbing and diving of birds up and down. The seaplane is having a field day and offers its wake to the day. Weekends are different than during the week though I haven’t seen any neighbors today. The action is on, above, and in the movement of water, and I’m rocked like a baby.

I’m sitting on a houseboat by the bay reflecting on this statistic.

As of Monday, the Gun Violence Archive had counted 67 mass shootings in the United States this year. The archive, a nonprofit research organization, defines a mass shooting as one in which at least four people were killed or injured. There are only 44 days so far this year.

Yesterday afternoon I followed a Snowy Egret as he or she stepped carefully around the houseboat at low tide.  Now, the water is high.  I wonder why so many  humans struggle to flow up and down with the tides.  

Someone swims by the dock today, no wetsuit.  The water temperature in Richardson Bay is 53 degrees. I’m cold in a wool sweater and jacket, and I’m in the air.

Birds fly by, together and alone.  They sweep and flow, know when and where to land.  There’s so much beauty around, and in us, and tragically a few are lost. Then we as a community and ecosystem struggle with their actions as we deal with pain and loss.

I wonder as I read about humans killing one another.  Animals only defend themselves when threatened.  Do we feel threatened?  If so, why?  We live on a planet of abundance. A rattlesnake doesn’t use its venom unnecessarily because it takes time to replenish.  A skunk is careful with spray.

On a houseboat, I watch the birds and tides.  I walk along the bay, seeing the niches and how they change throughout the day.

Today is cold and the wind is howling so wildly, I turn the sound up on my computer to hear inside the houseboat.  The gulls play with the wind; they dance, and without my glasses the white caps of the waves look like their wings.  

I’ve now learned the Great Blue Heron who welcomes entry to our pier is a she. And egrets abound.

For those of us who like to think we have control, I post some photos of morning from the houseboat.  Currently I’m wrapped in fog – very little visibility at all.

In the early morning dark, I sit on the houseboat Little Lux, facing north to Mt. Tam.  I feel the mountain’s roots nestle below.  Rain continues its pour.

I think of the sun, radiating, giving, the mountain, the oneness of connection like a rainbow, so many colors in one light.  The waves come gently this morning, and the tide is high.

The boat next door that sits on mud at low tide is floating now.  It’s amazing to feel the change as day comes to shades of gray.

I knew the wee houseboat would enchant the senses. I expected it to be about seeing since the motion of water and birds is continuous. It’s also about hearing.  There’s birds and water murmuring and churning, and there’s also the ropes as they tighten, loosen and strain with the movement of tides, and the sound of the dock as it adjusts up and down. 

I’m reading Frank Bruni’s book The Beauty of Dusk.  He’s struggling with his eyesight, and in that medical exploration, thinks about which is more important, seeing or hearing. He gives arguments for both, and sitting here, I wonder, which would I give up?  At this moment, all senses are stimulated and awake with gratitude as oars of awareness paddle and connect inner and outer tides.