Fresh and Salty

Why, hello, there. Oooooooooooo, did I miss you. I’m back, beaches. That’s right, Georgia, you ran me off. Or rather, as I sit here watching Moana with my littlest (I absolutely did not belt out How Far I’ll Go, you were hearing things) I hear “the ocean chose you.” Yes. The ocean chose me, chose us. Here we are on our magical little island on the east coast:  a little freer, a little happier, a little more “us” and it feels like a snake must feel when their dead, heavy skin finally molts away and they are slick and shiny and nimble. It feels like ascension from one of my rabbit holes. Keep pulling up, kiddo. I made it out of this one. Phew.

Now let’s start fresh. I didn’t say let’s start “perfect”. Just fresh. Perfect would mean my washing machine would be working (f*ck, f$@k, f*$k, f*^kity-F*^K!) or my 4-year-old wouldn’t be wearing footie jammies and watching her iPad at 4:10 in the afternoon (I’m supposed to be crafting with her or reading books, right?????) or the dog wouldn’t be terrified of the new invisible fence and therefore peeing in the house or I wouldn’t be scratching at 28 bug bites on my legs or I would have showered by now (old habits are hard to break). Baby steps, my friends- fresh not perfect.

Fresh is running to the beach in 30 seconds, a friendly neighbor bringing delicious, hot and fluffy homemade bread to my children, my kids banding together in the pool and trying to stack 4 high (they call it “circus butts”), a glass of wine in my hand and my toes in the sand, a dear friend who I found again after 15 years apart, waving at Mr. Don and his puppy named Wrigley who is squirming to get to Lolo, smiling and meaning it. Fresh is wanting to write again, needing to write- not for the sake of painful wounds but for the sake of sharing old battle scars- “here we are, dammit, there is pain everywhere, hurt all over this world but I didn’t give up, I’m making it better for me (self-care, baby), for my family, for the underdogs, onward, sisters, the ocean called so we came.”

A few weeks before we moved to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, I was standing in my kitchen having the most wonderful text exchange (because, yes, that is how busy moms can talk while catching flights, catching dogs, catching babies) with two deeply-loved college friends, the kind of people who ask “how are you” and really want to know, really. And throughout our hilarious exchange of words, while one was in an airport, one was navigating her life, kids, husband, a town she is still trying to love and the other (that’s me) was creating dinner for six out of limited groceries, the best of our texts came across:

“I love how we are all getting saltier with age!”

Oh, my love, you just nailed it. Salty.

I’m as salty as I’ve ever been in my life. It’s not just post-workout sweat (skull-cracking eye roll). It’s brave and loud and splashy and horribly-imperfect and loving and funny and proud. It might be a little Negan (in a nice way, of course) “we are just gettin’ started” (apologies for the zombie reference, get to know me).

Come run with me-I’m back and I’m about to homeschool four kids on my tiny little island of hope and perseverance and justice and integrity, and I have Orion on my right, Charlie on my left and my cavalry at my back.  And this time, it’s not just the lizards watching- it’s alligators, sandpipers, bottle-nosed dolphins, sea turtles and horseshoe crabs.

Fresh and salty.  I am just getting started.