The beach blocks out…pseudo-life, from life. Just the sounds, wind and water’s surge, seem to drown the sounds so often in my ear, “You have to remember to do this, at 3:30 you have this, at 4:00 she has that, remember to pick up this” and others less routinely benign, but who circle now regularly as well. I am a worrier by nature and an over-thinker. I imagine potentialities of every variety and deal with plenty of realities as well. Somehow, the beach stops that in me. It’s the only place my mind seems unable to spin. So I run there, time to time for that kind of stillness, even if I am playing games or interacting with others. I am somehow still at the beach.
I drove by lots of little cottages near our retreat center. The church camp isn’t exactly located in a resort district. The little places wedged against one another along our access road don’t have landscaped lawns, they don’t have pristine pools in back or a shed full of play pretties. They aren’t beautiful, but they do seem sturdy. Most have been there at least 50 years. Lots of winds have blown through that coast these 50 years.
Someone asked me on the way to Publix if I would like living at the beach – this beach. It’s really hot at this beach, there seems no natural shade for miles at a time. It’s not my beloved Golden Isles, replete with oaks and their deep shade. It’s open and bare and what grows is armed. The land makes me shudder. But, I stared on at the little paint deprived cottages, concrete block and squat, no flags of welcome flying, no lush St. Augustine to bear my own bareness toward an entrance…and I realized, it could be enough, to drown the sounds I so need silenced.