We are in between the trail and home, a liminal span of weeks. A space that could easily be mistaken for blank or empty, a time to be passed until the next transition.
Perhaps because of this, it feels essential right now that my days be OF the time and place that I occupy. That I exist in a context.
August in Maine means the beach.
I am really not a beach person. I start to feel overexposed after mere minutes of direct sunlight and the texture of sand gives me heebie-jeebies to a degree I generally describe as a sand phobia. And yet, it has felt like some kind of magnetic pull since we landed in Maine.
Our first day here I was scouring goodwill for a bathing suit and a day later we were packing towels and chairs and Italian sandwiches for our first outing. I played in the waves with a stupid grin on my face until I stumbled drunkenly on wobbly legs back to my blanket. The next day, we found a nearby river swimming hole.
In the water or out, I feel content. My mind is quiet. Everything feels simpler for a couple hours. I gaze at the horizon, or read a book with the sun on my back, or close my eyes and listen to the gulls squawk.
Here I am. I am here. This. Maine. August. 2018.