It’s the first time this year the words feel elusive and my excuses stronger when I sit down to write. The whole superstition of routine: it is not Tuesday, I am not in suburb sprawl box store half hour west of here, I didn’t just leave therapy and I’m not, first time since Spring, coming to the words to process feeling me coming out of my skin.
The words dancy and seasonal as Indian Summer. They wake me traipsing taunting at the edge of my bed. What a tease I imagine, not even delighted to finally see your trick asses again. I take my time getting up not to spite them just, it’s the first time on a Thursday I’ve felt the coziness of my bed in Fall. It is off season f i n a l l y and it feels just like it. The clear, startling light of the Equinox. Contrast so clean I can feel my own shadow alight around me. My patients all seasonal and teetery because that’s Beach City, babyyy all us living for the summer alive and preening and gleaning and glistening and pumping, all around and all about and most of all, deep and ageless, within.
On Wednesday I knew I’d be in the office late so I cut out as soon as my 2:30 wrapped and scooted quick as I could to the beach. The Island so you know (if you know) which one I mean. I have skin spots and places on my body that have aged dark with too much sun. I go anyway, I go, day after day, this time straight to my secret place then dropping my sheet and bag and chair I climb a dune half way up and fall backwards right into the sand.
After many long and grace-touched moments soaking it all in, the clarity, the stunning shadows and still peaceful birds, oh the emptiness, the stormy salt and sparkling white light. Only then maybe do I breathe. I follow the feeling deep in my gut to crawl a bit in the sand til it’s the whimsy love of mini-quartzes opening my spirit and so then I am on my knees as a child, collecting them all the tumbled clear ones in a pile in my palm.
And writing this now, I recall. When I started the free school how that was mantra. To move a mountain, go one pebble at a time. A day at a time, a pebble at a time. I actually had a little box of agate-quartzes back then. I kept it on my antique typewriter bc, obvi…my first religion the W O R D S so that’s my all the time alter but back then with a picture I drew of a big tree I called the free school tree. And I reminded myself. Move a little stone, one small action towards your goal, one a day.
Each new day. I will leave here my other office in Beach City writing to write how blessed am I, texting with this cute ass man too and head back to the island to meet a patient to walk. The water there doesn’t feel cold, or any colder than summer, but it is: after 15 minutes yesterday my insides catch a shiver and I reminded. Winter does come.
But for now? Fall, and the w o r d s as steady as the peepers and cicadas buzz and that shhhh shhhh in the trees, that rattle in the mudflats of whispery beach reeds. Praise the mystery of this, where it, one day after the other as an agate at a time, leads next.