Copyright (c) 2009 Linda Daline Limbaugh
I had been curious where I would stop. I didn’t imagine it like this. Not at all. Bum right on the sand. Where’s my blue-gray, weathered hunk of driftwood with branches and trunk curling up toward the sky? The one that so nicely would have supported me. The one I remember from my late teens and early twenties. When I still lived here. Mom doesn't even live here anymore. Not since the hurricane. Now I’m just one of those ones– the visitors, the ones who create all the crazy traffic. Spring break has begun. As I look around, I realize that the new – well, it could have gone up anytime in the last dozen years since I’ve been here – highrise must have eaten my beloved driftwood. The one where I would read when I wasn’t floating past the wavebreak, ears submerged, listening to the chatter of dolphins.
The sun begins to set behind me and to the right. A glowing orb, it casts a few buildings into sepia tone – one is the island hospital which may not reopen here, but move to the mainland instead, taking hundreds of jobs with it. The water may be gone, but the effects of Hurricane Ike still ripple through the community – the ones still here and the ones scattered around like fall leaves in all sorts of small towns and in the big city (Houston). But, back to here and now…
I notice a smile that won’t leave my face. They say that she who amuses herself never ceases to be amused. This is such a familiar feeling – this dissatisfaction. I had a vision of the perfect spot in nature. Actually drove many miles South to look for it, the pristine, ‘right’ spot where I would be inspired, words spewing forth like popcorn – I’d barely be able to write fast enough. I’d be so empassioned, the force of my grip would break the pen and then I’d be trying to write holding onto the flimsy ink cartridge and I would write until the darkness made it impossible to see the page…
‘This isn’t that place’, I think and I laugh. Of course, I could have kept looking. Right now, I could walk back to my truck, drive to the west end of the island or maybe to the bayside park. I notice that I don’t move and find myself very amused to be here – apparently in the perfect place. I know myself – I have been studious – and I choose to get off the hamster wheel of perfection seeking to discover the perfection of what is all around me: the trash littering the beach; the people approaching to ‘invade’ my spot; the lack of a proper seat for my bum. I catch myself thinking, ‘Next week, I’ll bring my campchair and then it will be perfect.’ How critical the mind is, always searching for that which will keep it from peace.
The gulf breeze helpfully blows the hair from my face so that I can see the page, so I can see the beauty of where I am. While earlier, I saw birds flying by in formation, solitary gulls fish the seas before me now. A family walks by. There are two women, two men, two children, one stroller. I was wrong – two families walk by. A woman in the distace walks two dogs.
I am sitting on the sand right in the middle of a set of tire tracks that leads straight into the water. I hear the baby express itself vocally without words, but not crying.
I turn to my right, hair flinging itself into my face and notice the orb is gone, replaced by a region of pink, diffuse with yellow hues above. A cloud passes through quickly from west to east.
Looking down, I notice a feather. I also notice that I would appreciate a restroom, but a civilized one is not present. Will I bare my bum in front of strangers, I wonder. There is a line of artificially created sand dunes behind me. We’ll see…
To my left, I see a line of posts, barring vehicle passage. A tempting gap opens near the middle, posts on each side warning ‘Do Not Enter.’ I know they are not meant for me with my sandals, yet I wonder how I stop myself. How I bar myself from entering fully into my own life with other people’s stories, with the stories told by our culture, stories that are not for me.
I look forward and the first word that comes to mind is ‘ruffles.’ I see the grand dame, Gulf of Mexico, dancing in a large, straight skirt, rimmed with undulating white ruffles. The constant movement looks the same constantly. Does she never get tired?
A couple in the distance looks also out toward the Gulf. The man raises his arm to point at something.
My attention returns to my body and I thank the earth for supporting my bum so solidly. My bladder says ‘Can we go now?’ And I laugh.
I look up – I don’t know what made me do that – and quickly, audibly take in breath as I notice the moon. A waxing gibbous. ‘Hello moon!’ I am not alone. Not by a longshot. I never am.
The smile is still stuck on my face, lips parted, teeth showing. A man jogs toward me from the left. Wish I had my running shoes. I look up and smile at him as he passes. He doesn’t smile back, yet I keep on smiling. I remember a time when I would have judged him for not being friendly and I would have dropped my smile. Now why would I do that to myself?
Lights begin to emerge from the dusky horizon. The breeze is delightful. I notice a paw print to my left. I wonder if I will be able to find my bumprint so that I can sit in exactly the same spot next week. I laugh as I realize I will sit in the perfect spot wherever it may be. Maybe in a camp chair. I’ll just have to wait and see.
‘Love you, world. See ya around.’ I am moved to bow to and from my spot, as if I am in the zendo of my former community and realize that now, the whole Earth is my zendo. Yay!!
I kiss my hand, raise it to the sky and wiggle my fingers, still smiling, grateful. A shout out to the creator.
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