I went clamming yesterday, mostly to get clams, but the other reasons matter, too.
The breeze came in from the northwest, the temperature hovering around 35° F. Not so bad if you stay dry, but chilly on the flat if you insist on clamming with bare hands.
The moon and the breeze pushed the waters back, and the bay's edge lay unexpectedly exposed, glistening like a tendon, more surprised than embarrassed.
The back bay gives and gives, and I take and take, all unearned.
The tide rises after I leave, smoothing out the scars I left with my rake.
I gathered some kale, parsley, and rosemary from the garden, also unearned, and also taken.
The shells now lay under a tree in the backyard, the essence of the clams now part of those of us who ate them, and part of the air around us.
I teach biology, but I live life--and the chasm between the two reflects the difference between an education and a living.
We owe it to our children to make sure they know the difference.