I don't go to the beach enough. In the off-season, I mean, when it's cold and windy and damp. I had to pick up some sand for a presentation on caregiving I'm making tomorrow (a visual about a rock and a circle and a sacred space) so Abby and I headed out to Northport in late afternoon, only to discover it was high tide. Just enough beach for a walk but the dog whined the whole time, stuck close to me -- as if the tightness of the water, the noise of the waves rushing up to us discombobulated her.
It was rather annoying, actually. When I go to the beach in November for a walk, I don't want to hear her whining; all I want is the sound of wind and waves in my ears, driving out all the thoughts and worries that aren't attached to my brain (the firmly rooted ones being the ones I want to keep in there). I don't want to hear her whining because I go to the beach to escape the whining voice in my head -- Why? Why not? When? How?
Waaaa, waaaaa, waaaaa.
I can only speak for writers but there is nothing like the beach in the off-season, in cold, damp, blustery November, to fix the slew of obstacles that sprouted up during the day. If I have a problem, a glitch, a miring I am stuck on, the beach is the place to go to work it out, to get unstuck.
And now that my memoir is turned upside down, into a totally different book, with a new beginning and a new focus, there are memories to tap into that are lying deep and dormant in my brain. It will require a lot of wind to stir them up.
I'll be going to beach more often now.
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