New Beginning

Sunrise over the ocean.

Golden light by the lake.

In a pinch, my steaming driveway after a recent rain.

There is something about being by the water that speaks to my heart.

I walk along the Vineyard shore searching for the tiny bubbles Quahogs send up to breathe. I plunge my hand into the sand to see if I can beat their descent. Sometimes I capture one to plunk in an old orange bucket. Sometimes I hold a handful of nothing.

It all works just fine for me.

I like to dive into the ocean and close my eyes and listen to the plink-plonk of shells rubbing against one another. I like to squinch my toes in the cold mud of a lake. To comb my fingers through the grass that blows in the current from the dark of the watery floor.

The journey to anywhere by the water takes me to my calm place, too.

Bright blue barn doors

Organized rows of wildflowers

A funnel of white seagulls

Tiny pop-able blueberries

Sudsy broken-down wash-N-go

Quilt stand

Old green hulled boat

Sweet corn

The warm breeze on my bare arm out the window.

I work hard to bring myself to the water. I choose to live in locations as close to it as I can possibly afford. I routinely load my children into the car for drives to the sand; even if we just spend an hour or two.

It’s medicinal to me.

Oxygen.

Breath.

Recently I got away for the weekend with my college girlfriends. A few of us were missing due to understandable life-conflicts. Having a baby. Landing a new job.

Most of us were there though. We carpooled. We told stories of boyfriends and girl-fights. We arrived first thing in the morning, laughing already. We gave thanks to our hostess for being so welcoming with her home on the Cape; her hospitality gave all of us the opportunity to revel in the company of one another.

I notice that as we have grown we’ve become more accepting of circumstance and idiosyncrasy. There are no evaluations. No stress.

Instead, there are overflowing cups of champagne and orange juice.

Coolers full of sandwiches and fresh fruit.

Beach chairs.

Bathroom breaks.

Laughter so hard my stomach cramps.

For 24 hours we reminisce.

We talk about decisions we made that we never would have made again.

We laugh at how glad we are to have made bad choices. To have taken risks that we pray our own daughters won’t. (That we secretly hope they will.)

We review stumble home evenings from bars.

Old boyfriends.

Current husbands.

Children.

Anxiety.

We tell jokes and eat too much. We pile into one car to drive to town. We strap our smallest friend into a baby seat and load a few of us into the rear of an SUV.

For 24 hours we slough off reality and bask in the ocean. The sand. The comfort of girlfriends.

I pause as I write to give thanks for friends who love one another.

The water is an old friend to me as well.

I accept its gifts every time I visit.

There is the old green sign I found during one beach walk that now hangs above a special door in my home; a door to an area that I rarely share.

It reads: There is a sense of forever in the sound of the sea.

It is the sound of foreverness that comforts me.

The hush and forth of the waves that will never stop; their drum beat lend perspective to my petty problems.

There is the barky piece of tree my brother used as a flag on top of a fort he built for my son one afternoon in New Castle. My brother inscribed a black Z in a choppy circle in the center of the souvenir. When Zoe was born, Zachary added a smaller silver circle with a baby z inside. I keep the memory on a faded wooden stool in my dining room.

There are shells and old coins in a pile on my dresser.

There are rocks from particularly important trips; smooth and white or striped or claw shaped.

I write the name of the beach and the date of the visit on the rock in thin, neat permanent marker. Two of the most important stones sit in an old silver candle holder on my night table.

When I hear the water, it is more than a feeling of friendship.

It is love and permanence and dependability.

Beach hair

Dances in the wind

Salt-lick ocean skin

Sensibility and chipped paint

Sparklers in the hands of laughing children

A mish-mosh of weathered perfection.