I was born on an island. Perhaps that's one reason being on this one now feels so strangely like home. Tall trees and black sand beaches and a tinge of salt in the air bring back memories of my childhood, growing up with a beach for my backyard. My sister and I spent hours there playing, with the sand a canvas for our endless imaginations. We drew floorplans for our imaginary houses, and when we tired of one, walked a few yards away and started another. Bullhead kelp were our children, complete with stringy hair, and rocks and driftwood served nicely as furniture.
My beach trips 20-something years later usually involve a steaming latte and my ipod, but there's still room for my imagination. The smooth sand left when the tide goes out still makes me want to draw in it. Maybe it's something about knowing it will all be washed away with the next tide, and there's plenty of room to start over.
:: “The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach - waiting for a gift from the sea.” – Anne Morrow Lindbergh
