There is a phrase Hart Crane, the difficult but magnificent American poet, uses to interpret the relationship between the ocean and the sky, in a most penetrating manner: “Infinite consanguinity.”

Some say it’s trudging over the hill. Others consider it the prime of life.

Last Friday morning, Jan. 20, I decided to make a sweep of Beach Road and the Lagoon Pond Bridge in search of nip bottles. I planned my walk to coincide with the low tide point.

We call our daughter Pickle, but her real name is Eirene, which means peace in biblical Greek, a language my wife Cathlin studied at seminary.

I marvel at the diversity of life among my fellow travelers, who exhibit a range of emotions. They are all traveling to America for something the rest of us know little about.

The last year was filled with rancor and mean-spiritedness, a breakdown in civility, decorum and basic kindness.