If you tuck yourself into the tufts of grass where beach meets cliff, the relentless breeze off the Pacific eases and the heat of the sun has a chance to sink in. (Particularly in the places where you were too casual about sunscreen, but you won’t notice that until you head back to the house, because there’s still been enough of a chill to keep you at the perfect temperature).
People came and went, celebrating the 4th of July with varying degrees of commitment, ranging from the standard collection of camping chairs to small tents to one family with a full-sized gas grill wheeled onto the sand for the occasion. Now the pop and whistle of fireworks echoes along the hillside and the faint smell of sulphur lingers in the air.
I wrote and I slept. I asked myself the same pressing questions again about my marriage and myself and how to do a better, joyful job going forward. I think I’m getting somewhere, but I don’t think it’s like collecting shells or pebbles. I don’t even think I’m digging up a fossil and trying to peice it together to see what strange creature it once was. I think my task is to rub this relic smooth until I wear all the way through and it turns to sand, to nearly nothing, to the smallest of atoms, and can be washed out to sea or carried off by the wind or some other beautiful fate I can’t think of yet.