There’s a boy on the beach with his dad every day a 11 o’clock. 2 or 3 years old he comes bouncing onto the beach with excitement and joy, holding a stick in his hand, waving it across the sand, as his dad in a brown flannel uses a ball-thrower to toss a tennis ball for their mutt.
Every day at 11 I see this out of my front window, and every day I smile and feel the joy in my own heart. This boy, with his blonde curls bouncing, running out to the ocean, this routine of his dog and his dad, remind me about the cycles and phases of life. He probably won’t remember these mornings, he’s too young. He will likely grow up to remember the trauma and the pain that he’s experienced, the moments where his dad fell short.
Maybe they move away from the beach like my parents did when I was around his age and he’ll only remember this sand and this wind and these waves like a distant memory in his cells that dance when he sees this beach again later in life, knowing something important happened here, knowing not exactly what.
I’ve been thinking about our memories a lot lately. Our perception of the way things happened. The stories we tell ourselves about our lives based on memories or stories our loved ones tell us or pictures we come across that make us believe we actually remember being there instead of just seeing that we must have been there at some point. I’ve been thinking about the difference between actual memories and cell memories and stories we’ve been told, and how maybe they’re not at all the same.
I came across a video this week that made me think even more about this and starting begging the question….if our memories aren’t reliable story tellers, then is the story we tell ourselves about ourselves and our lives ever actually true? And if not, what IS true? And can we just decide to write a different story?
I don’t pretend to know the answers to life, or these deeper questions, but all I know, as I sit here watching the waves on my very last morning on this beach, that even if the boy doesn’t remember this, I will. He is now part of my story. The one where I looked up at 11 am and smiled as he bounced down the beach as the wind moved his curls.
I have felt some sadness leading up to this day. The day where the beach stops being my backyard. It’s been such a special time for me, and the feeling of waking up to the view of the expansive world of the beach and the feeling of being home isn’t something I wanted to give up.
My world has expanded so much by being here. Every day I get to see life being lived right in front of my eyes. I see new footsteps in the sand, new couples holding hands walking down the beach, new kids giggling under a blanket of sand. Every single day is different here, which is such a stark contrast to chronic illness life typically lived within the same four walls, looking out the same windows where not a lot happens.
I hadn’t traveled in four years before this. Hadn’t been to my home state in the same amount of time. And I can’t remember the last time I came to this beach. Even though there’s the ping of not-wanting-to-leave, I am so unbelievably grateful I’ve had these 21 days of blonde bouncing curls and daily dynamism. And I will be back.
Here’s my haikus for the week, which also included an amazing visit from my sister, who (obviously) also grew up on this beach.
Thanks for reading. And below the paywall for my VIPS is another haiku from my sister’s visit and a video you won’t want to miss. Soon I’ll be sharing the story of walking around inside the house I grew up in and the magic I had to make in order for that to happen…40 years in the making.
XO
P.s. If you missed the two previous posts about this beach, you can check them out here and here.