Caverns in the Sand

Sand is like cinnamon. Come in contact with it, and you’re instantly whisked away to a content, yummy place in time. Somehow, though, our response to the feel of sand on our bare feet exists outside of time. There are many people who report experiencing this serene response even upon their first encounter with the sometimes soft, sometimes grainy but always satisfying stuff. Sand is something we connect with in an intrinsic way.

There’s a passage in Richard Louv’s “The Last Child in the Woods” where he provides an interesting nature-as-therapy “theory” that he was introduced to by perpetual nature lover Elaine Brooks. During her years on the planet, Brooks worked as a biologist, oceanographer, and eventually teacher of nature. And what she alleged is that the relaxation response to nature is in our DNA.

Primitive humans in the heat of pursuit climbed trees to escape their would-be captors, she explained. Finding refuge in the branches provided them a “rapid comedown from the adrenalin rush of being potential prey.” Brooks said “biologically, we are still the same,” and we’re still programmed for flight or fight. So amid the stressors of today—balancing work and family, information overload, the constant blue buzz of technology, and good old-fashioned noise —we find respite from the race in the quiet of nature.

Sand, for whatever specific primordial reason, triggers the relaxation response as readily as the branches of a tree. That’s why every time my little family and I arrive at Salisbury Beach Reservation, I crave the moment when the boardwalk planks give way to sand and all the thousands of miniature peaks and valleys created by all who’ve walked there. 

But, in addition to this wonderful gift of peacefulness, sand (and nature) can also serve up life lessons ... if we're paying attention.

Tuesday morning, Henry, Sadie and I made our own footprints when we arrived (early enough to enjoy an almost-empty beach). Henry and Sadie are beach kids. They can play for hours, happily. Switching easily from building sand mountains, to sifting sand for seaweed and remnants of shells, to running in the surf. Just when I think they are tired, the cycle replays. I usually have to use bribery to get their rosy cheeks and sweaty, sand-sugared/sun-kissed blonde heads back to the car.

On this particular morning there was an older boy building knee-high sand caverns at the edge of the water, each cavern complete with its own moat. At first, he did not want the kids to come near his masterful sand village, but like seagulls to Goldfish crackers, they hovered around the boy until he finally let them help.

Sadie sat in each moat, one-by-one, scooping up wet sand and letting it run through her fingers. Henry worked with the boy to build the next cavern. He listened well and studied the boy as he worked, then matched the boy's techniques and details almost exactly.

Every once in a while Sadie would stomp through a cavern accidentally, or take a shovel to the side of one, devastating the internal structure. Henry and the boy would jump up and try and save their work.

As it turned out, though, the biggest threat to the village was not Sadie Leigh and her barbaric baby ways—it was the tide. It started coming in, slow at first. But eventually it came fast and relentlessly, and with every wave a cavern was being lost.

It reminded me of gardening, and how we work so hard to maintain our yards, but in the end—a hundred years from now—whatever work we put in will be overgrown, gone, and probably forgotten. I felt sad as I watched the frustration build on the boys’ faces. Eventually they had to withdraw their efforts and walk away.

Henry was a little down and out afterward. I asked him how it felt to help his friend build the village. “Really fun,” he said. I asked him what else he liked about it. “I liked helping,” he said. “I liked making the sand super high.” Just recalling it brought the smile back to his face.

“Well, next time we come to the beach, let’s do it all over again,” I said. “But, I insist on drip castles.”

“Okay!” he said.

While I don’t know the factual reason that we connect with sand the way we do, or why it brings us so much peace; I was reminded of what we can learn from sand:

1) There are so many things in life we give our energy to, hoping they will last forever, or become something great; but sometimes the tide comes in and things get washed away. Just like that.

2) When things get washed away, for better or worse, a blank slate remains—and, fortunately, you still have all you need to rebuild, as long as you have the drive to do so.

3) Appreciate the process, find reward in the work itself. (And maybe take a picture to remember it by.)

I hope Henry connected on some level with those lessons as well.