coast
Erin says that I'm part selkie. And she's not wrong.
It took me aback at first because if asked I would have said that my superpower should be flight, not the ability to don a sealskin and live underwater. But she's totally right.
If there's water nearby, I need to get as close as possible. On the particular weekend pictured above, I had flown to Chicago and dragged her to a state park resort along Lake Michigan north of the city to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. And she let me.
At Rustic Lakehouse, I set up my bed and desk in the dining room because it had the best view of the lake with two entire walls of glass, and when I think of leaving Lovely Apartment in favor of a row hose with a back garden, I'm brought up short by the thought of losing my view of the tiny ribbon of the Potomac River that we can see from the balcony.
I recently traveled to Acadia National Park with friends, and as we were planning, I was mostly interested in hiking the woods and mountains. I knew, of course, that this is a coastal park, and my friends chose for us to stay in Bar Harbor, so I was certainly aware that some time with the sea would be part of the trip.
But I wasn't prepared for the way the salt air rushed through my lungs and into my soul.
Jim and I had been hiking through the woods for a bit and emerged unexpectedly onto this sand beach, and I was overwhelmed.
As I walked ahead of Jim, the landscape filled my awareness--the sound of gentle waves in a sheltered cove, the tang of salty air, the cold breeze off the water moderated by the bright sun.
I stood like this for a while, boots sinking into loose sand, palms and face raised to the sky.
Jim called it an act of praise, but to me it felt like coming home and greeting a beloved sister. Lake Michigan and the Potomac River are like distant cousins.
When we're done hiking, we're coming back here, I said. And I'm putting my feel in the water.
And we did.
The water was so very cold and so very important.
I need to learn to take my love of salty water into account when planning my life.
It took me aback at first because if asked I would have said that my superpower should be flight, not the ability to don a sealskin and live underwater. But she's totally right.
If there's water nearby, I need to get as close as possible. On the particular weekend pictured above, I had flown to Chicago and dragged her to a state park resort along Lake Michigan north of the city to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. And she let me.
At Rustic Lakehouse, I set up my bed and desk in the dining room because it had the best view of the lake with two entire walls of glass, and when I think of leaving Lovely Apartment in favor of a row hose with a back garden, I'm brought up short by the thought of losing my view of the tiny ribbon of the Potomac River that we can see from the balcony.
I recently traveled to Acadia National Park with friends, and as we were planning, I was mostly interested in hiking the woods and mountains. I knew, of course, that this is a coastal park, and my friends chose for us to stay in Bar Harbor, so I was certainly aware that some time with the sea would be part of the trip.
But I wasn't prepared for the way the salt air rushed through my lungs and into my soul.
Jim and I had been hiking through the woods for a bit and emerged unexpectedly onto this sand beach, and I was overwhelmed.
As I walked ahead of Jim, the landscape filled my awareness--the sound of gentle waves in a sheltered cove, the tang of salty air, the cold breeze off the water moderated by the bright sun.
I stood like this for a while, boots sinking into loose sand, palms and face raised to the sky.
Jim called it an act of praise, but to me it felt like coming home and greeting a beloved sister. Lake Michigan and the Potomac River are like distant cousins.
When we're done hiking, we're coming back here, I said. And I'm putting my feel in the water.
And we did.
The water was so very cold and so very important.
I need to learn to take my love of salty water into account when planning my life.
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