The intensely bright sunshine, glancing off the sparkling emerald green water, made it almost impossible to see. The day was quite hot and humid, but the breeze fingering my hair was refreshing, even though I continued to sweat. I took a deep, shaky breath, closed my eyes, and tilted my face to the sky. The glare from the ever ruffling surf didn’t matter. I was deep inside my own head working on something, seeing only what was going on in my mind’s eye anyway. I do this a lot. I have a hard time staying out of my head, actually.
I’ve written stories and had conversations in my head all my life. Sometimes it’s a little difficult to determine when I’m with someone if I actually had that conversation with them or if it was one of my flights of fancy. I’ve rewritten the endings to books and movies countless times. I’ve had so much practice over the years I can be so deep inside my thoughts I won’t be aware of anything going on around me.
I’ve recently relocated from Michigan. I grew up there never liking the winters because of the cold, and not liking the summers much because of my hay fever as a child. Although I did have the unparalleled opportunity of living in Arizona for a few years a short while back. My last winter in Michigan seemed so long and brutal I was not-so-secretly hoping to be somewhere warm for the next season. And here I am. I think God got tired of my whining and said, ok ok – I’ll let you go to Florida.
He’s actually pretty good at putting up with my whiny attitude. He’s very patient with me while I learn to act like a grown-up.
Digging my pink painted toes deep into the warm sand, I experience once again that familiar twinge in the pit of my stomach. The sadness that won’t let me be. I can see his beloved face. I can feel him. His scent surrounds me, and the emptiness he left behind cripples me. How safe I had believed myself to be in his arms. I foolishly thought it would last forever. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental picture, but it insists on returning, along with the accompanying sorrow. And now here I sit on this beautiful beach of chamois-soft white sand with my chin on my knees and my arms around my legs and tears once more sliding down my cheeks, as I rock back and forth unable to contain my pain. Crying shamelessly on a beach most people refer to as Paradise. This grieving has to end sometime. It just has to. The empty aching follows me everywhere I go, and there are days I want to lie down and die just to make the hurting finally stop.
But I can’t lie down and die, because there is still work to be done. My job here isn’t finished yet.
“Suck it up, sweetie.” I speak these words out loud. “There’s lots of people hurting much more than you, so get over yourself and find someone to encourage.”
At that last voiced admonition, I’m on my feet and dusting myself off. I pick up my discarded flip flops, give them a good shake, and make my way back to my car, sinking a little into the sand with each footstep, leaving a visible trail of where I’ve been and where I’m going. I only live a mile or so from the beach, so it’s a short drive.
I look in my car’s rearview mirror, taking stock of my appearance, dry my eyes, now puffy and red from my weeping, put my sunglasses on, then give my head a good shake and force a smile at my reflection. Just breathe. One last nod of my head, and I’m heading back to my new home.
Those gentle and mesmerizing sounds of the emerald water swooshing in and then retreating, over and over, is always soothing to my spirit, and the constant low roaring helps to give me that feeling of solitude I so long for, so I come to the beach to sit for a while as often as I can. Or I walk slowly along the water’s edge with the white foam tickling my feet letting the sounds and the smells and the gently sinking sun whisper peace to my soul. I can feel myself healing down deep where it matters.
Back in Michigan my stress level had reached its limit and I hit the wall – physically and emotionally. I couldn’t eat for days and then didn’t want to eat. No desire. No cravings. At least for food. My desire and cravings were for him.
Love has a scent. It is rain in the air. It is wildflowers in the field. It is
life pushing through the dirt.
The crack and pungent burning of a close lightning strike.
A screaming gale-force wind hurtling freshly broken branches into
the maelstrom.
It is beautiful and gentle and rough by degrees with passion and wanting
and satisfying.
A complete relinquishing and total possession mutually given, mutually
accepted.
My happily ever after, so far, isn’t so happy or ever after. And my memories in turn comfort and haunt me all at the same time until I fear I will go mad.
However time, as the old saying goes, heals all wounds. And every day, as I spend time focusing on the good, slowly releasing the bad, I can feel myself growing stronger. I’ve been smiling more and crying less. I count that as progress.
Learning the lessons I need to learn and moving forward in anticipation of my next adventure.
And my happily ever after? Well, I don’t give up on dreams that easily.
God always seems to have something up His sleeve.
