On of my favorite blogs is Los Farallones, written by the staff working for Point Reyes Bird Observatory on Farallon National Wildlife Refuge, a remote rocky island almost thirty miles off our coast. Recently, they wrote about Gull JuJu:

Here on the Island, we’ve noticed that the Western Gulls have a particularly unique and fascinating taste for edible-looking things and nest decorations. When walking through gull territories, one will often notice a collection of rib bones, regurgitated bits of plastic trash and other such goodies, brought back lovingly from the mainland, some 30 miles away. Over the years, we’ve collected our favorite findings and stowed them away into the Gull JuJu Archives. By far, the most common juju items found are decrepit plastic figures. A variety of army men, Winnie-the-Poohs, Lego characters, rubber duckies and many more have found their way into gull’s bills and stomachs.

I’ve been sorting through some of the junk and debris of my own life recently, and during this process I’ve dreamed of piles that look a lot like this, washed up on the beach at the edge of consciousness. I keep working through it in my conscious life. Rigorous honesty, as they say.

Once I have my juju gathered up, sorted, labeled and cataloged, I take it to the beach with a friend. She brings blankets and scones. A juvenile Western Gull watches, eager for a piece of scone, or maybe hoping for a special bit of juju it can steal for its very own.

In the act that I have been dreading for weeks, I retch all my juju up into the sand, and we look at it piece by piece. We talk about my labeling and cross-referencing. It’s quite a collection and the themes emerge. Tattered family photos, old grade cards, broken doll parts, tampon wrappers, army men with their guns who’ve pledged to protect all this juju if only I stay silent. Stolen coins and candy. Piles of chocolate chip cookies. Little bits of colored plastic, melted into blobs by anger or worn smooth by shame. A proud little pile of junk that I guarded like secret, dangerous treasure.

My friend looks at it all without judgement. And she points out that I have one tiny army guy left, one I picked up over the weekend and hadn’t quite swallowed yet, and suggests maybe letting go of that, too. I’m not sure. Maybe he’s there to guard the next pile. But I know she’s right. I can’t let go of the juju without letting go of all the juju. I really do want that one tiny post-confession moment where I am free of all of it, before I start collecting it again, as all humans do.

We put on our shoes and get ready to leave. The gull sitting and watching is now an adult Western Gull. I smile. Usually it takes them four years to do that.

I do feel older, as I go through the rest of my day. But the remaining army guy bothers me. It’s just a little thing, it seems so inconsequential…just one tiny failure to express my feelings honestly. And maybe everyone would be better off if I didn’t. But all day long, I keep stepping on that damned thing in bare feet. It annoys me. I vow to get rid of it when I have the chance. I don’t know how to do that without adding it on to someone else’s pile. All I can do is trust in something bigger.

At night I try to sleep, but toss and turn and yes, that stupid little hard jagged piece of green plastic is there, digging into my skin, until finally I surrender. I get up, swing open the door and send that army guy off, give him to the moonlight. Empty and unguarded, I finally find sleep.

Photo of gull juju from the Los Farallones blog. Photo of juvenile Western Gull by Marlin Harms. Photo of adult Western Gull by Laura Gooch.