We are at the beach this week.
I love everything about those two words. Their succinctness. The way its “ch” sound lingers after it leaves your lips. The images and feelings the words inspire.
One day I will write everyday from a room that looks out at a stretch of sand. Beside my desk will be a door to lounging deck chairs. I will take my cup of coffee and my book and read in between moments of staring at the great expanse of the Gulf, breaking only to go in the water–diving deeper in my consciousness.
That’s not a dream. That’s my horizon.
Speaking (writing?) of dreams, last night I endured a somewhat confusing dream twinged with fear and paranoia. I could go into detail, but I’d prefer to keep your attention. It had to do with high school and me negotiating between a rebel pack of kids and our school’s administration. (In between all this, there was a moment during the dream where I tried to use a hotel restroom, but all the stalls were either occupied or had women reading magazines in chairs beside the toilets.)
I woke up and walked out to the living room where the rest of my kids were eating their mini-sized boxes of variety cereal and my husband had brewed our first pot of coffee at the beach (this is a sacred moment for me–my two favorite things blending together–freshly brewed coffee and the beach). As I poured my coffee, a pilot on the television was talking about flying at night, “You can’t lose your horizon,” he said, “You’ll get vertigo and crash.”
Wildly enough, a Mountain Man pilot on The History Channel interpreted my dream for me.
I’ve lost my horizon. I’ve been negotiating between what I’m supposed to do and what the rebel in me wants to do for way too long and in far too many aspects of my life.
I must go–my children have moved from begging, “Can we go to the beach now?” to putting on their suits by themselves, even the 3 year old, and standing as-patient-as-a-kid-can-stand by the condo door with their beach toys and sunscreen.
I will put on my swimsuit, pack our beach bag with their towels, snacks, and my paperback copy of Cheryl Strayed’s Torch. And in between the water, and the reading, and the kids, I will make it my intention of the day to stare at the great expanse of the Gulf and remember my own horizon.
Before I go, tell me, have you ever lost your horizon? How did you find it again? Did you crash before getting it back?