41 Minutes by the Blue

Life can be scary. Nature is healing.

Today I drove Sis’s car, with Sirius XM radio and good A.C., to Sherwood Island State Park, exit 18 off Route 95 North. It’s a little beyond Westport, Connecticut (the town where Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward raised their family).

I had to get the car back in time so Sis could go to spin class. Traffic was bad. I had 41 minutes at the beach, 4:19 p.m. until 5. 

It was enough. Nature in my heart, my soul, my pocket. I took off my Peds and Nikes, minced my steps over a dense carpet of whole and jagged seashells, and walked into the Long Island Sound--ankle-deep. 

Many gifts if eyes open to see them:

• A sailboat, crisp white wing against June sky.
• Seaweed. 
• Shells in hand, an oyster shell for Sis.
• The promise of summer in my heart. Joy, sand, sunscreen, water, waves. Always and forever.
• Walking the path, which climaxes by the quiet "living" 911 Memorial, designed to change naturally with the seasons. It’s a beautiful pocket by a rocky coast. 
• A few Wednesday sun umbrellas and small beach tents.
• Beach roses, pink and promising white. Just like Cape Cod! (Dan even planted a hot candy-pink one in our backyard.) We can’t pick flowers in public places, so I plucked a single pink petal and held it to my nose.
• White clover in green grass. I remember that in the lawns and parks of my girlhood. Wildflowers. How pretty. Flowers that grow wild, whether we want them or not. Determined blooms. Rugged.
• Quick prayer.
• Lungs filled.

I asked the nice guy at the snack bar if they had iced coffee. Not today, but they will, come summer.

I was back in time for Sis to get to spin class. #grateful

Good night.