Today I want the ocean.
I’ve successfully battled an upper respiratory virus this week. Did the prudent thing and stayed home and as a result I’m now pressed up against some work deadlines. So I must attend to those tasks.
But I want the ocean. I want her messy fish bits and kelp filled brine to wash over me and take away the last of this little illness. I want to smell the marine essence and hear the scolding gulls. I want to sit in the breeze at the foot of the cliffs, read Julia Child’s My Life in France, and fantasize I’m on the Gallic coast. I want the damp air to seep into my skin and I want sand to scrape against my toes and get stuck in every crevice of my surf slippers. I want to watch the long legged birds race up and back at the water’s edge as they dig out hapless crustaceans from the surf line with their long bills. I want a cold salty face and black sand under my fingernails. I want all these things and yet I sit in my home and take care of business.
So I do what any magical homemaker would do. I take a short break and sit with my bowl of shells and look at them, hold them, and feel their energy. The pyrite sand dollar has a gurgling blurb of peacefulness. I remember each shell and where I got it: Coronado, Playa del Carmen, Carlsbad, Catalina, Grand Cayman, Cabo, Tulum, Marco Island, Cape Cod, Jekyll Island, Old Orchard. I reach in to the jar of Clearwater Florida sand… the beach of my toddling childhood. I press my finger into the granules and feel their roughness. I remember Nana and Great -grandmere Mellie.
I’ve successfully battled an upper respiratory virus this week. Did the prudent thing and stayed home and as a result I’m now pressed up against some work deadlines. So I must attend to those tasks.
But I want the ocean. I want her messy fish bits and kelp filled brine to wash over me and take away the last of this little illness. I want to smell the marine essence and hear the scolding gulls. I want to sit in the breeze at the foot of the cliffs, read Julia Child’s My Life in France, and fantasize I’m on the Gallic coast. I want the damp air to seep into my skin and I want sand to scrape against my toes and get stuck in every crevice of my surf slippers. I want to watch the long legged birds race up and back at the water’s edge as they dig out hapless crustaceans from the surf line with their long bills. I want a cold salty face and black sand under my fingernails. I want all these things and yet I sit in my home and take care of business.
So I do what any magical homemaker would do. I take a short break and sit with my bowl of shells and look at them, hold them, and feel their energy. The pyrite sand dollar has a gurgling blurb of peacefulness. I remember each shell and where I got it: Coronado, Playa del Carmen, Carlsbad, Catalina, Grand Cayman, Cabo, Tulum, Marco Island, Cape Cod, Jekyll Island, Old Orchard. I reach in to the jar of Clearwater Florida sand… the beach of my toddling childhood. I press my finger into the granules and feel their roughness. I remember Nana and Great -grandmere Mellie.
And I get up with a sigh, refreshed, and get back to work.
Well, girlfriend..you might not be any closer to the beach...BUT...you're definitely polishing up your writing skills. Put on an ocean sounds cd and "play like" you're there.
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