Simplicity

Do you remember the night we sat out on the jetty?  The sun sank low over the harbor and cast a orange-pink light over the ocean as it rushed into the inlet.  We sat barefoot on the rocks as the currents swirled just a few feet below us.  We didn't talk much.  We didn't have to, really.

Do you remember that?  I do. And it leads me to this... 

When everything falls down, when all seems at a loss, there is always the constancy of life: the sun always sets. The ocean continues to crash. The moon runs through its phases.  Seasons come and go.  We breathe in and we breathe out.  One foot in front of the other.  And, at the end of the day, we nestle down and drift off to a warm, sound sleep so that we can greet the dawn again with fresher eyes.

We must remember the simplest of things.

Unwritten In November

The summer lingers in my mind even as the cold of the impending winter bites into my bones.

- - -

The boardwalk was surprisingly busy for a Saturday in November. An older, heavy set man strolled passed me with his face shoved into a bucket of Thrasher's french fries. (I smiled because, if you know anything about Thrasher's, then you understand exactly how reasonable that is.) Seagulls squawked and picked at the remains of fries and funnel cakes left on the ground. The arcades were open: the music of bells and whistles streamed out into the chilly afternoon air. A little boy ran up behind his sister and pulled the trigger on a neon orange cap gun. Startled, she smacked him on the shoulder and then returned her attention to the guy behind the Atlantic Stand counter.

I zipped up my jacket and blinked as the cold wind swept through the crowd. I kept walking. Life goes on. It must.

Just a few months ago, the summer blistered our bodies. The days reached over 100 degrees; there was little relief from the heat and the haze and the humidity. We passed those days on the beach... under umbrellas, icy bottles of cider in our hands, our blanket just a short sprint from the cool refuge of the ocean. The clouds never lingered too long. We laughed and talked and day dreamed. And, although the sun was burning everything in sight, life seemed easy.

We stared out, straight ahead... The horizon was endless. A perfect blue line between this world and heaven: it looks like a promise stretched out in front of you. Your eyes get lost in the expanse of it and your mind wanders towards the unseen edges. Everything and anything is possible. The future is unwritten. All you have to do is believe.

Just believe.

I spent those days with my head lost in the spaces between the sand and the breakers, that little place where the sea foam bubbles up and quickly fades away. I did not care how much the sun burned my skin: the only things that mattered were the sounds of laughter, the smile of a friend, the wishes made on falling stars, the pulse of the sea, running for miles in the last minutes of daylight, watching the sunrise, stealing a quiet moment to enjoy a fiery orange moon, and pushing towards that horizon full of unknowns.

Because I did believe. I still do.

But now, walking the boardwalk, all zipped up in a thick jacket with my hands buried in my pockets to keep them warm, I couldn't help but feel the pangs of sadness in my heart. I miss the warmth of the summer. I miss the feeling of the sun on my skin and the sheer exhaustion of an afternoon in the Atlantic. I miss the days lasting longer into the twilight and the moments when night finally came and the stars emerged from a black velvet sky. I miss lying on my back and begging for one to fall down.

My eyes traveled ahead. Many of the stores had closed up for the winter and that further served to reinforce that my summer was gone. I looked out towards the ocean, over the sand, towards that beautiful horizon... The cold air brought tears to my eyes. (Or, at least, that's what I told myself.)

As I turned around to head back, I tried to shake the lonely feeling that had rooted down inside of me. This wasn't going to be forever, I reminded myself. It's just a temporary hibernation. The seasons come and go as is their very nature. The cycles must complete: summer to autumn to winter to spring to summer again. This is how life works and we cannot stay in one frame forever. We shouldn't.

I glanced again, this time over my shoulder, at the sand stretching out towards the sea and the sea pushing against the sky. When the winter comes, I will seek refuge in my warm memories of a glorious summer. And, when the spring comes and all the brown turns to green again, I will emerge too... a stronger version of me. Growing and rebuilding. The sadness will be flushed out. After the days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer and my heart will be healed.

And when the times comes, I will shed my winter skin. I will be ready for the strength of my summer sun.

Stop

When my eyes opened this morning, after dreaming of the desert, I realized that my world had stopped spinning.

It was 6:00 a.m. and everything was dark, save for the glow of my alarm clock. I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed. I stared at the floor and thought of the desert. (The dream made little sense, as is typical for my dreams. I was dressed for a blizzard, standing on a cliff in the desert, staring down into a narrow river. I wanted to jump in...) The sunrise was moments away, I knew, but I turned to wedge my fingers in between the blinds just to double-check. Darkness. Back to the clock. Three minutes had elapsed since my alarm went off. Just a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Time works that way when you realize just how lonely you feel.

Over the past several months, I have loved and I have lost. Some fell to natural causes, a couple were taken away by the fickleness of the human heart, and one was murdered. I moved, I worked, I ran, I tried, and I didn't stop. Life swelled like a tidal wave in front of my eyes. But the end result of these difficult months is this: I am alone. And completely by choice.

Change is often thrust upon us... and sometimes, we have to choose it.

The tolls have made my heart heavy and left me without the desire to write a single word. The blank page wasn't an enemy - I simply had nothing to say. This terrified me because writing has always been my fail-safe. When little else made sense, I had words and pens and empty lines on paper and they always helped. But, this year, it's been increasingly difficult for me to get what lies in my head and heart out... the disconnect was everywhere.

But I am determined to find my way back to the page, back to words. I know life runs in cycles and this cycle is a rough one. But although there has been little poetry and much drama, both comedic and tragic, I know that it has not all been bad. The tears and upheaval have been punctuated with bright stars, laughter, and glimpses of a blue horizon. There were many good days. I hold onto those minutes of happiness because I have to.

This morning, I felt alone. Tonight, I am surrounded by words and a couple of blank pages. It is a solitary comfort, but I'm grateful for it.

Along The Water's Edge

I opened my eyes. The ocean stretched out in front of me for a thousand miles. My legs shifted. For days now, I'd been longing for this: an evening run on the beach. I took a deep breath and turned north.

The sun had already set. Twilight was creeping in over the tops of the hotels that lined the beach. With each step, I watched the sky slip through the various shades of blue.

I ran in the place where the ocean begins to recede from the sand, just where the last flash of the whites of the breakers disappear. Over the music playing in my headphones, I could still hear the dull crashing of the ocean. I ran along the edge, every so often changing my course to avoid getting caught up in the rising tide. I watched the ocean pull back, recede into itself and swell again.

There is something hypnotic about its constant nature.

As I ran, I noticed the remaining signs of life... beach-goers squeezing every last minute for all it was worth. A little girl played in the waves, squealing when the remnants of the breaking waves pushed into her. Another little girl, avoided the water all together and moved like a skittish pony when the water crept up towards her. I ran past a group of teenagers tossing frisbees with lights inside. The pirouetting of the flashes of light caught my eye. So much so I nearly ran into a man with a fishing pole.

My mind was slipping into an easier gear as my legs stretched and pushed against the wet sand. I can't explain how or why it happens like that... I just know it does and that's enough. The constant humming of my own brain drives me from one weird place to another. But then again, I guess maybe that's how it is for everyone - we all have to contend with what lies within our own skulls. And we all have to figure out the best ways to manage the noise, the buzz, the voices, those things inside of us that never go away.

A little farther up the beach, I saw a faint orange glow. There was a bonfire going and I could see people sitting around it, laughing and talking. The smell of the burning wood mixed with the salty air filled my nose and I couldn't help but smile.

I had no idea how far I had gone nor did I care. In moments like that, my autopilot serves me well. All I had to do was exist, breathe in and out, and keep moving. I ran along the dying breakers and I couldn't help but think about what that might mean. Why am I always searching for the edges of things? I am always so restless.

When I decided to turn around and head south, I was beginning to feel the run. The burning in my muscles, in my lungs. Sweat. I welcomed them. A smile widened across my face.

The ocean continued to crash down again and again. In the fading twilight, the place where the ocean met the sand and the sky was blending into one dark terminus, each one indistinguishable from the other. The horizon was a haze of navy hues and it went on forever.

I could see the bonfire again. That old familiar scent lingered in the late evening air and it made me happy.

Then, the hotels began to turn on their night flood lights and the beach was awash in a fluorescent glow. The foam of the breaking waves was brilliant white against the blackness of the ocean. I turned my gaze towards the hotels: as people returned to their rooms, there was a golden glow cast out of the windows. Strange patterns formed, like half-filled honeycombs. I shook my head... this is how my mind works.

I continued running, looking ahead for the hotel that marked my entry to the beach. I was getting close to it when a large wave crashed and soaked me from knees down. My shoes filled with sand and cool water. I laughed and slowed my pace. You can only run along the edge for so long...

You'd think I'd know better by now.

I finally came to a stop and dropped down into the sand. I pulled off my water-logged shoes and socks. I faced the Atlantic. My heart racing. Sweating. Breathing hard. I walked down into her breakers and I closed my eyes.

Status Un-Haitus

The winter chill is breaking and I'm kicking out of my cocoon.

Over the holidays, I lost two dear friends: one moved away to Connecticut and the other passed along to other side of this world. The bitter cold and threats of snowstorms did little to ease my reclusive mood. I barely felt like writing. But here it is... March and I am rolling up my sleeves and digging into new projects.

To get out of this rut, I've been playing around with new mediums for storytelling and I'm really excited about a few prospects. I think, every now and again, I need to change up the routine. I forgot that writing was supposed to be fun, not just a means to an end. I am coming back to the table with refreshed eyes and a sly grin.

Look out.

Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 2)

I opened the back door and stepped into the living room. Our empty living room. The sofa, the Hoosier cabinet, the new rug... all gone. I lost my breath. I walked into the middle of the room and felt the tears coming. The house that had been my home for more than 30 years was now a shell. As I walked across the floor, I heard the echo of my footsteps.

I wandered into the kitchen. The cupboards that once held bags of flour and canned goods were vacant. Countertops that once collected items from everyday living were bare. I ran my hand along the fridge - also empty. My mind raced back to our elementary school days when report cards and spelling quizzes covered the refrigerator, top to bottom.

In the dining room: no table, no china cabinet, no dishes, no chairs. All of that was now perfectly situated in my mother's beautiful new house. After our parents separated, our mother began having Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at her house. We invited anyone who might not have had a place to go and, as everyone passed the sweet potatoes and turkey and dressing, a new kind of family was emerging. Right there. In our dining room. Now, all that was there to remind me was the green tiffany lamp hanging in the center of the room... just like it always had.

I turned my eyes to the left and saw the vast space in front of the fire place. The old den looks huge now that the big leather sofa and flat screen television have found new residences. As my eyes followed along the blank walls, I remember every spot that we had put the Christmas tree. The far corner by the front door. Directly in front of the center windows. In the other corner, by the fireplace. My heart was breaking.

I ventured upstairs, blinking back tears and fighting against my knotted stomach. Luckily, the movers spared me the last insult as I found my old bedroom still in tact, although I know that is momentary. But I glanced across the hall. The only thing that remained in my mother's bedroom was the indentations on the carpet where her antique brass bed used to be. My sister, Kristen, and I used to lay on the bed and look at each other through the bed rails, pretending like we were locked up in a jail cell. As I stood looking at the empty floor, I remembered the many nights of nightmares and sickness that prompted me to stand in that exact same spot, whispering to my mother, "Are you sleeping?" (She never was, ironically.)

The house felt so quiet. But, a new family was just months away from moving in. A mother, a father, a little boy, and two young girls. Soon, the voices of children would fill these hallways and rooms. If there was ever anything to stave off my breaking heart, it was the knowledge that this house would be a home again. And soon.

I am old enough to understand that nothing lasts forever and I am old enough to be happy for my mother who is over the moon in her new house. I want her to be happy, more than anything else. Leaving Waycroft is simple and bittersweet. I will remember this place in my head and heart.

As I pulled the door closed behind me, a tear slid down my face and a smile emerged. After all, life just goes on.

Here's to the next chapter...

Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 1)

Saying good-bye is heartbreaking business.

---

Truthfully, my mother had awaited this day for years now, but the prospects of moving had only become a reality in the last few months. She had been handed an unexpected gift: her dream house (owned by a friend of hers) was suddenly available. Ma couldn’t believe her luck. The possibility of this new house brought out a light in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in entirely too long. Finally, her day had come. The Mayflower trucks were on Waycroft Drive, emptying the home we had shared as a family for more than 30 years.

Instead of heading to Waycroft, I went to work. I tried not to think about what was happening in the old neighborhood. Ma called me a few times at my office. I could hear the excitement in her voice, ringing behind every word.

“It’s almost 11 and they’ve already got everything on the trucks! Just a table or two is all that is left!”

I forced a smile. “Well, good. I’ll bring lunch to you guys at the new place in an hour or so.” Deep down, I knew what was coming and I knew I wasn’t prepared. This was new.

After lunch was over, my sister, the professional horticulturist who so kindly drove into town the night before, went back outside to work on the courtyard and pond. My mom and her friend, Ginger, continued to direct traffic around the new house. Brass bed? Oh, yes, in the spare bedroom to the right. The leather sofa? Sitting room in the front. Dining room table? Under this chandelier, please. My mother was absolutely glowing.

Then it happened.

In between the placement of a chair and a table, I caught her attention. “I’m going to head to my house. Get out of these heels and grab a change of clothes. I’ll be right back.”

Then my mother said, “Oh, could you stop by the old house and grab a few things for me?”

“Sure.”

And then she rattled off a list: the vacuum cleaner, a dust ruffle, the kitchen garbage can. “No problem, Ma.”

She squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and quickly left. On the drive to my house, I couldn’t get passed the knot in my stomach. I left home when I was 18 and headed off to college. I never really returned home after that save for summer breaks and a few months post-graduation. I’ve owned a little house on the outskirts of Salisbury for nearly seven years now. My sister, Kristen, moved to Philadelphia more than three years ago. And, since our parents divorced seven years ago, Ma has been the only one in that house. She’s been the last one standing on Waycroft Drive.

On the drive to my old house, I was on auto-pilot. Driving this route was second-nature; I must have done this a thousand times in the past seven years. Six turns. A couple of miles. My new house to my old house. Over the bypass. Next to the graveyard. Down a country road snaked between two large cornfields. Passed the golf course. Oh, yes, I could do this drive blindfolded. I pulled in the driveway. Still just going through the motions. I was surprised that I felt a bit numb walking up the porch steps.

All that changed with the turning of a key.