Moss Rock.

I'd come to La Jolla for the quiet, to walk, breathe the fresh air, empty myself. I'd been in a job that had grown demanding beyond my ability to bound, locked in by my sometimes overactive sense of responsibility.

Through the years I find myself thinking more about the longer-term obligations that might come with my early enthusiasms. Most times I'm successful now in sensing emotional quagmires. Sometimes they still sneak up on me. The slow accretion of duties in this position certainly did, masked by my joy in working with talented, generous and healthy people.

Now I came to rest, free of the job. I took a small cottage near the ocean. At night I heard the waves, smelled the breeze through my open window. Savoring the entire place, the air, the colors, I waited until the third day to give myself to the beach.

Slowly I walked, breathing in the immense vista, the feel of the sand, the new browns, rusts, grey-greens. Overhead platoons of pelicans swept down to the breaking water, then straight up, then level again. I made a lot of images with my camera, silly details that struck my fancy. A couple of classic waves, breaking in the sunshine.

And at the edge of a small overlook, looking straight down to the splashing water, this moss.