Our lives ebb and flow
like the tides,
cosmically connected
more than we know.
We rise and then fall
and the dance goes on,
eternal.
Our hearts beat in that
rhythmic roar,
deep and vast and
powerful as the sea.
And though we must go
one day,
always we stay –
a drop of soul
in an everlasting ocean.
I’m a mountain person.
Always have been.
Graham grew up by the water, and spent pretty much every summer day of his entire childhood on the sand. He’s the first person I’ve ever met who actually lived at the beach.
Before we got together, I think I’d visited the beach, like, five times, maybe?
All of that to say, the beach was never a huge part of my life, and it’s taken some getting used to.
It’s silly, I know, to say something like that. Lots of people love the beach – they visit every year, they make plans to retire there, they dream of owning a house and staying in it as often as they can. And I totally get it! It’s just never been my thing.
But y’all, sometimes, you gotta get over yourself.
And in this case, you is me. I am you. Because, as it turns out, Lucy loves the beach.
She’s a little intimidated by the all that sand and water, sure, but she’s a fan. Graham is elated. 😊 And me?
Well, I guess I’m finally, slowly, and for the best reason ever, becoming a beach person.
Summer around here is watermelon season.
Lucy approves.
Today, I could say
I wish you well,
and in a way,
I do.
I wish you a full well,
and flowing rivers,
babbling streams and
shoes sopping wet with rain.
I wish you well,
and so I wish you water.
I wish for you green, green grass
and heavy, rustling leaves.
I wish you clouds and fog,
evening storms
and drizzles in the morning.
I wish you water.
I wish water for me, too.
Dull,
brown,
dry as dust,
the trees and ground
cry out for rain.
The skies tease and threaten,
rushes of wind
and clouds of gray.
How long, I wonder,
can it possibly go on this way?
But the drought
goes on
another day.
I can feel it, even now,
in the cool night air
and the subtle shift in the evening light,
and in the gentle way the leaves seem to sigh
and say,
“We are tired, and ready to let go.”
As one season waves goodbye
and another prepares to cross the threshold,
I breathe it in and wait,
and know:
All things come in their own time.
The dark clouds roll in,
thick and heavy,
carried by ominous wind.
And we can only wait,
baited breath and ready.
Now is the season for storms.
I confess, I’m just not feeling very inspired today. I’ve spent pretty much all morning and most of this afternoon waiting for something to come to me – a poem, a funny quip, even a good picture to take – and you guys, I got nothing.
This happens.
This especially happens, at least to me, after a vacation. Anybody else? And any ideas to kickstart creativity?
Coming off of time away, it’s just sort of hard for me to get back into the swing of things. My brain’s just not in it. But it’ll get there! So, in the meantime, I shall ponder ideas for July’s short story, and hopefully come up with something more interesting to write on Wednesday. And Friday.
Sigh.
I’ll be taking a blogging break next week, from July 17th through July 21st. I’m still planning to read all of your wonderful posts. I just won’t be writing any of my own. Why?
I’m going to the beach!
Okay, I know this is something I do fairly often. It’s the advantage of marrying a beach kid. 😉 But this year feels a little different, a little special, because it’s the last time Graham and I will be heading down to the ocean as just the two of us. This time next year, we’ll have our little girl, and we’ll be three. So exciting, and I can’t wait to see her reaction to the waves and the texture of the sand.
But, for now, I really want to unplug as much as possible and just enjoy this time with Graham, before things change. It’s a good change, but a change nonetheless. I’m so happy and grateful, but also soaking in these last few months before we’re parents.
So, happy creating in these next several days! And I promise lots of fun stuff when I come back, including July’s short story. I haven’t started it yet, but I plan to make it a good one!
Keep busy,
little fuzzy buzzies,
at your most important industry
and know that in this garden,
you are safe.
Just look at the state of it –
overgrown and ardently wild –
a sign without a sign to say:
Pollinators Welcome.
(Humans, Proceed with Caution.)
I always hope that one day,
probably far away,
I’ll become a gardener.
In the meantime, then,
how lovely to see
that at least I’ve helped create something:
This space for you to gather
what you need.
And how nice, indeed,
to think that Nature nurtures
all on her own,
regardless of me.
A Virginia Writer's Diary 