Into The Breakers

I have long held the belief that salt water cures all.

Chicken pox? Take a dip in the ocean. Sinus trouble? Swim for a bit. Sore throat? Minor cuts and abrasions? The ocean will see you now. A broken heart or a worried soul? Well, yes, those too are cured with a few moments at sea.

. . .

We made our way over the dunes in the hot August sun. My sister and her friends were already there. Thomas and I plunged across the lava-like sand; sweat was already running down his face. He's a fair-skinned Irish boy and I'm a well-tanned Eastern Shore girl. In spite of his sensitivities, he loves the ocean almost as much I do. We found the girls and set up our makeshift camp: a rainbow umbrella, a chair, a towel, bottles of frozen water, and an ample supply of sunscreen.

My sister wanted to go swimming. The sun was beating down on us with the kind of intensity that threatens to destroy, not just burn. The thought of the coolness of the ocean on my skin ... we practically ran to the breakers. We had heard in the news that a tropical storm lingered off the coast of Bermuda, about 800 miles away. Even when storms are far out to sea, we can still feel and see its effects: this day was no difference. The current was stronger than usual and the waves were higher than normal.

As we swam out, I could see where the ocean was white-capping. Soon, I was diving under occasional three and four foot swells. We laughed and swam; we dove and did flips into the rolling ocean. The cool water ran over us and I could taste the sea water as it dripped down my face, through my hair. I watched my little sister, now a grown woman, grin ear to ear after surfacing from a plunge underwater. Thomas and I exchanged a few salty kisses that were more comical than romantic. There, in the sunshine, as I dove under a large wave, I felt free...

. . .

We retired from the ocean after a long swim. Thomas took up residence in the shade while I dropped my body onto a towel in the full glare of the summer sun. I dug my feet deep into the warm sand. I looked up at the Atlantic, and, just like clockwork, a thousand thoughts flooded my mind. This happens every time. Staring at that horizon makes my mind tumble and fall.

The past few days have been especially rough for me. I was looking to run away and so we did. We got as far as Ocean City and the Atlantic. For me, there has always been (and probably always will be) an irresistible draw to the ocean. She is wild and dangerous; she is beautiful and subtle. She reminds me that, although I am just a piece of a larger puzzle, I am lucky. After all, not everyone gets to bask in her glory and breaking waves whenever they want. I am beyond fortunate to live in such an amazing place.

My broken parts are on the mend, I feel certain. A few more trips and I may consider myself healed.

Fuel To Burn

Ten years ago, my grandmother asked me if I had ever heard of the Pilchard murder. No, I said. She directed me to a marble top desk in her living room. In the second drawer from the bottom was a stack of old newspapers, yellowed and fragile. Within moments, I was devouring the chilling tale of the Pilchard murder... a series of events that read like a Hollywood movie only this was real. It was wrenching and sad, but interesting and complex as well. As I read the words from that awful winter of 1940, something in the very core of me felt electrified. There was this burning to write, a desire to narrate this story. The intensity of the fire stayed; the research and the emotions became fuel for me.

Recently, I stumbled upon another story that has reignited that old flame. In the winter of 1968, a prisoner shot and killed two men while making an escape from the Salisbury courthouse. While this is the sum of the story, it too has several layers of complexity. I awake each day eager to write this story, to find a new piece of the puzzle. While I don't really want to make a habit of writing murder mysteries, this particular story has reached me in a way that nothing else has in recent months.

So, here's to writing. Like this again.

And may all these poor souls find peace.

"Running On Faith"

I don't know if I have any faith left in me.

This is a hard admission for a girl who was raised to believe in and respect something higher and greater. I spent my hours in a church pew, staring at a vaulted ceiling while the red velor cushions itched at the backs of my legs. I remember the lessons, well, some of them anyway. Be kind and loving. Be tolerant and respectful. Honor your parents. Don't hurt people. Don't judge. I've always understood that faith is a good thing.

But I have spent my first thirty years doing a lot of hard running and wistful thinking. Broken hearts and broken bones; my scars remind me of the narrow misses. I seem to be hard-wired for movement and most of the folks I know with any amount of faith seem better at sitting still. I don't know if I ever had it or if I just lost what little pieces I had along my way.

Am I running from faith or towards it? I simply do not know, but what I am certain about is that all of it will catch up with me sooner or later. I wonder when this body is going to give out. I wonder how long I can keep running while checking over my shoulder at every turn. Faith doesn't dwell in those kind of anxious moments, not for me anyway.

Sometimes, as I lay in bed at night, I pray. In the absolute darkness, I clasp my hands in front of my chest and whisper. I don't know who exactly is listening, but I hope that I'm heard. Maybe that is the first step of faith.

Me, Shiloh, and Neko Case

A few evenings ago, I was driving down a back road in Wicomico County, headed home from my mother's house. It was approaching dusk. Shiloh, my basset hound/golden retriever, was riding shotgun; Neko Case was singing on the radio.

The corn was nearly thigh-high. I am always amazed at how fast it grows. In a few days, it'll be hip-high. The sun was setting on the edge of the field, slipping down behind a row of shadowed trees. I imagined crickets chirping. It was so peaceful... I wanted to pull over and just stay for a moment.

Shiloh rested his head on the open window sill, letting the air rush over his face, closing his eyes on ocassion. Sniffing constantly. I envy his serenity.

Neko Case was singing, "I'm a dying breed who believes... haunted by American dreams." Being haunted is a curse and a blessing. Or at least, this is what I've decided. Ghosts will stop you cold but then force you to run.

I leaned back in my seat. Felt the wind rush through the open windows. Listened. Thought. Over the past few weeks, my mind has been unsettled. I've been pulled tighter than a drum and the stress has been evident all over me. At the end of the day, I'm just looking for one simple thing: a little bit of peace. I try to put some ink on paper, hoping that my peace is in the lines and in the spaces between the letters. It helps, I won't lie, but once in a while, there's just not enough ink.

Shiloh turned away from the window and I rubbed his head. As I pulled to a stop at an intersection with another back country road, I heard the crickets and a frog. And there, in that little moment, I smiled.

Still

I'm sitting on my back door step, writing this under a sky that threatens to storm. Occasional flashes and distant growls. The wind rushing through the leaves sounds like rain or like faded applause. My old yellow dog is uneasy and whining nervously. Across the open field behind my house, in the distance, I can hear the fire station horn blaring, cycling up and down the tones. My thoughts are swirling, but mostly, I keep coming back to one: try to be still.

An old friend once told me that I am always moving, pacing, doing, running. "You're never still, you know." She smiled at me when she said it so I couldn't take offense. But this struck me.

I asked her what she meant. She said that as long as she has known me (more than 25 years), she has never seen me stop. "You're always into something, moving towards a goal or something. You just go, go, go. And that's alright for the most part, but you know, at some point, you gotta relax. You gotta learn to breathe."

Stop. Listen. Breathe.

But the truth is... I don't know how to stop moving. I've heard that sharks must move or die - they need that continual motion in order to keep water flowing over their gills, in order to breathe. Maybe I am built like that. Maybe this never-stopping is how I keep breathing.

"Don't you ever get tired?" she asked.

I thought about it. Sleep is a relative stranger to me. When I was young, I used to try to keep awake as long as I could because I was plagued with night terrors and nightmares. That part never really changed. These days, I sleep, but just enough. I grow tired just like anyone else, but the fatigue gets shoved aside because I can't stand its slowing effect.

The sky is rumbling again, but the wind has stopped. An insect is chirping in the field. I've been sitting here for more than twenty minutes. My mind is a mangle of thoughts that I can't get straight. And that old feeling is rising up inside me again...

I'm leaving.

Letters from Curacao

Night has fallen in the Caribbean. I am exhausted but entirely happy. The warm breezes remind me of just how far away from home I am. This morning, we left Baltimore under a deep blanket of snow and an uncomfortable cold. Tonight, I sit mere feet away from a softly lolling Caribbean Sea.

The tree frogs have started an evening chorus, small pleasulant chirps not quite in unison.  Palm trees sway, creating a rustling backdrop for the frogs.  All I can do is listen. 

It has been a long day of traveling. My eyes are growing heavy. I am already dreaming of blue water.

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