I was bit by black flies today. Lying on a purple and white striped beach towel, I tired to ignore the bites, the wind whipping sand at my body. I felt in the way of drift and time. What was the essence of those long summers at Cathead Bay? Mike ponders with me in our Sunday morning bed—the expanse of time in which to do nothing—or everything I add. So this afternoon, in my hopes of doing everything, I headed to Wetmore Landing and here I lay in the way of wind and time. I worry that my weight loss has left me looking like a 45 year old woman with clothes that look old, worn-out, and baggy. I am wearing cut-off jeans over my too large swim suit. I’m alone accept for the two girls on towels, and the two boys on rocks, and a family drinking bud-light and doing crossword puzzles. I play with burying my own legs to keep the flies from them. The girls watch drinking their bottles of red Gatorade. Over the rocks comes a boy. He begins crazy construction of a sand castle and moat. He’s in the zone. Separated by this giant granite rock from family, he constructs molding and digging only with hands. Mother appears over the crest of rock and calls, “Brian!” He does not respond. He scoops water and sand. Mom locates the boy and turns back over the rock, back down to her hollow out of the wind. Aunt Linda chases young children down the beach—headed back to the car after what looks like along day hiking.
I walked the wooded trail. Returned by way of beach, greeting each dog, black lab, golden, Shepard, mix. I’m putting off good vibes and they know it. Today I did get time to stand still for a bit. Long enough to scribble words in the margins of this book. Long enough to remember I need bananas from the co-op. Long enough to let hot sand ease some tension from my neck and shoulders. The blue of Lake Superior is powerful in all weather. I gaze out in prayer, hoping to carry some of that power and energy into my work week. Hoping to keep some clarity of who I am instead of the labels that categorize my life into pockets of time and energy. Too often, it seems the clock dictates who I am or what role I play. And, me, I have been telling myself for years I can do anything for a day, eight hours, for the next ten minutes.
I am a participant in the…
Free Write Fling with Cynthia Morris–31 Days to Loving your Writing!