Socked In

We went on our annual pilgrimage to North Carolina. We rent a small condo that overlooks the beach. The ocean provides our background. We sit just beyond the tide’s reach, Chris working on a needlepoint of hydrangeas that only progresses on the beach, and I reading books, smoking Ashton cigars, and body surfing. It’s a safe haven from our normality that tends to wear us down. It’s a port in the storm. This year we couldn’t take our morning walks or sit under our umbrella. Thunderstorms pounded the Crystal Coast for five out of seven of our vacation days. Now and then we trundled down to the beach and got some sun between showers, but the storms ruled the week. You’d think we’d be disappointed or upset. But the truth be told, we were fine. The hours were peaceful, filled with silly conversations, cooking, reading, watching lightening hit the ocean, and mostly being together. The time of life was sweet, sitting on the beach or not. I do not understand why we insist on supporting a soul-eroding pace that offers us little time to listen to the birds, appreciate the flowers, and discuss how Motzart’s sense of humor is evident in his music. I’ve heard that the only difference between a rut and the grave is depth. I think our normality is a destructive rut. I can’t please everybody, or do everything that needs to get done, especially when my agenda doesn’t include taking care of my marriage, my sense of humor, or my soul. I guess that means I’m not going to get ahead. Oh, well. I never did figure out who I was trying to get ahead of anyway.