Swam as far as I could out into the ocean. Jumped up to catch each fierce little crash and let it tumble me in cold salt water toward the shore. Swam until every muscle in my body was limp and exhilarated.
Laughed at Joy and Mom and their name for the swelling water that isn’t quite a breaker: ballet waves. Point your toes as you meet it!
Found a sea cave all my own, with tiny crabs in black, swirled shells, their feet pricking my fingers as I inspected the pearl of their doors. And in it, a carpet of jeweled little rocks, smoothed into miniscule gems that made a gravelly sand.
Ate superb cheese enchiladas.
Cried quarts and quarts at the death of Prince Albert in a movie about Victoria and Albert.
Wrapped up in my favorite sea blue, hand-crocheted blanket to read The Silmarillion, Green Dolphin Street, and The Private World of Tasha Tudor in enchanting, soulful rounds of thought.
Realized that I don’t have sharp enough eyes to see God’s goodness. Saw that he is always loving, always filling, always creating. And I so easily say I feel He doesn’t love me. Like a blind slip of a girl who can’t see past the end of her nose.
Walked until lungs and breath and sea and thought were all of twining, thumping grey rhythm.
Ate chocolate ice cream truffles and raspberry sorbet with new friends.