Observing change

The photos below are four years apart with the most recent taken just yesterday evening.

The ‘Drop Stone’s’ ageing over the intervening years is clearly evident with the freshly oiled, brightly vibrant, sandy yellow of newly finished huon pine contrasting sharply with the grey, weathered look of today’s bench.

Change is seen elsewhere.

Looking at the angle of shadow cast by the two bases of the bench, the time of day might be the same, but the larger shadow now darkening the left end of the bench deck comes from the she-oak tree grown taller.

Looking at the beach, four years ago there was a lot more sand to be seen. Over the past year this sand has been washed away by a series of strong storms and now the underling stones have been exposed. I am intrigued by this shift and find a fascination in examining the long term cyclic nature of the coming and going of sand on the beach. However, I will admit to liking the sand more than the stones.

More of a daily change, and probably not so easily grasped, is the direction of the wind. In the top photo the wind would have been “off shore”, resulting in a clearer, more defined background. The bottom photo is of an “on shore” breeze, resulting in a brighter, more cloudy looking background because of the salt spray being carried inland and the sunlight being bounced off of it and directed back to the camera. Even the sky appears cloudy.

Coming back to the bench, the big question I always face is whether or not to accept the process of change time and weather bring. Do I leave them to age gracefully or do I constantly sand them back to a more youthful finish? Certainly, the stony look of the aged bench has a softer quality and blends in nicely with its surrounding environment (especially, with the stony grey beach). I approach it as one does a well worn pair of favourite shoes. Better for wear and loaded with memories.

Yet, looking back at how the bench presented itself on the day it was first placed in its commanding position on top of the cliff above the surf, I recall a “freshness” that was exciting to behold, and, like any finely dressed, good looking stranger strutting into town, it commanded attention.

To bring the bench back to its former “newness” would only take a days work to undo four years of “ageing”. It does cross my mind. But there I leave it. Not out of laziness, but because I live at Roaring Beach, not Los Angeles.