We didn’t walk on the beach today. I feel bereft. There was too much to do, I thought, and that really isn’t possible. I don’t want to let that happen again. My group art opening was this evening, and I referenced the beach in my installation, so I was at least there virtually. Not the same. My day is poorer. Perhaps this is good. I need to feel that loss deeply. A small thing, missing a walk? No. Missing it is becoming meaningful in itself.
So here is what I missed: two miles of walking. An hour of fresh air with its scents of kelp, salt, and, later, eucalyptus. An hour of looking carefully. The feel of the sand. The sound of the waves: the rush, the roar, the lapping, the receding, the almost quiet moment of subsiding. The gulls and the godwits and the sandpipers. The wave drawings in the sand. The stones, the scrub, the squirrels. The climbing and resulting sore quads that tell me I’ve pushed myself just a little. The loosening of other muscles, their warmth after an hour. The pinked cheeks, the shedding of the jacket. The shaking out of sand from sneakers before reentering the house. The relaxed shoulders, the lighter step.