Far from Home

Feet at Water's Edge

I love the beach.  I love everything about it: the sun, the sand, the surf, the food.  I even love the weight I gain from eating said food because of how that weight accumulated.  I find my center with the waves lapping over my bare feet, white caps in the distance, and the ocean air cleansing my aura while humidifying my hair.  When I am not at the beach, I am not home.

I visited the beach for the first time while still entombed in my mother’s womb.  My arrival date was five months away.  I visited the beach for the second time eight months post-birth.  I haven’t missed a year since, except for 1996 when my father hurt his back and 1998 when my parents were saving up to take us to Disney World.

So, why don’t I live at the beach?

I don’t know.  Well, I mean, I know.  I know that my parents moved to rural Pennsylvania from Philadelphia because they didn’t want to raise their children in the city.  I know that I couldn’t exactly strike out on my own while wearing footy pajamas.  I know that adulting required me to make certain decisions that honored my responsibilities and kept me moving forward on the path to “success.”  But those are all logical reasons – things I can blame for detouring me away from the coast.  I don’t really know why I don’t live at the beach.  The cosmic reason is beyond me.

I believe I’ll live there someday.  Maybe when I win the lottery, maybe when I retire, maybe when the adventurous spirit that has eluded me all my life takes over and I can no longer resist the call of the wild waves.  But until that time comes, I will placate myself with surfside prints on the walls, beachy touches throughout the house, and summer-movie marathons, every day feeling a little too far from home.


Photo by Abbie Bernet on Unsplash

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