The ocean sparkles as we stand on the open beach on this blustery cold day. Winds whip our faces as we feel the breath almost pulled out by the force of it. Carmen in her 8-year-old self, wrapped in winter coat runs towards the water, waving her arms here on Assateague, a National Seashore. A wave comes up and sloshes into her shoes. She screams and runs back to me, face beaming. How can the sea melt so many dusty thoughts in an instant?
I want to give her this. Freedom, quiet, simplicity.
We come here for two nights when school is off the week of Thanksgiving. Life at home for her is full—twin sisters, many animals, stressed parents. My life is full too. She and I have gone on trips since she was three. We have a rhythm together, an ease. When she was three, it was band aids one after another in the car, wrapped around all ten fingers—good for 45 minutes. Now I bring paper, pencils, crayons, scissors, and tape in the car. Three hours we drive, with a sense of adventure and anticipation. Familiar yet new. This time she spends an hour drawing a detailed face. Most of all I love the total focus. She is absorbed and doesn’t’ speak much. I gaze at her in the rear-view mirror as she leans over her paper. She shows me the drawing later and I am enthralled with the depth in the eyes of the figure.
I want to give her this. Time and space with no urgency. Immersion and focus; freedom.
She asks to sleep over the night before we leave and to get up at 5 a.m. to leave.
“How about 6?” I say
“I want to leave at 5!” She remembers our trip to Cape Cod when we had to leave so early.
I’m game.
“OK! I’ll wake you up and we can get on the road, watch the sun come up.”
Sure enough I wake her, and she pops out of bed, gets dressed while I pack up the food for lunch and dinner.
I am used to prepping for a road trip. For me this is freedom, simplicity adventure, even creativity. I love the early morning drive on the road. I’m giving this to myself, to her and to us both together.
It's the off-season. No one else is staying at these cozy, warm welcoming cottages. For this reason, the owners let us in get into our cottage early. We unpack with delight as we scurry around to put food away, blocks out, books piled up. We are warm, cozy. She unpacks her suitcase into the dresser, hangs up coats. I make the other bedroom into a music room, with violin, mandolin, and hammered dulcimer. I smile to myself. This is fun!
There are twin beds in one bedroom. She wants us both to sleep in there!
“Great idea!” I say.
“Let’s make up the beds with extra blankets.”
She chooses hers and sets her stuffy on the pillow. We are excited and lighthearted, working together to create hominess.
I want to give this to her, give this to myself. To make space for this experience, an alchemy that may nourish us both for eternity.
Then we dash to the beach where the wind blesses us and we laugh with delight at each other.
She shouts to the ocean, arms up and face wide open,
“You are my best friend!”
A favorite activity—church thrift store—where we find toddler clothes for her sisters and a blanket for her parents—only $5! Treasures. She remembers the bank where I got cash last year. The church ladies only take cash, no checks or cards. Hahaha.
There is an ease here, no screens or movies and no requests for them.
We take out the pizza dough and go about making our dinner. The kitchen includes a table with chairs. It opens easily into the cozy living room. The rhythm of cooking, helping, eating our pizza and brussels sprouts is reflected in my sighs of relaxation. Then cleaning up. When we are here together, just the two of us she puts dishes away, sweeps the floor, and proudly wipes the table.
I feel myself slow down inside. I ease into the comfy couch after dinner. I put my feet up, sigh, and lean back to relax. She plays with the blocks on the floor nearby.
“Look grandma! I made a castle for my dog!” I lean up to see,
“Wow, that’s cool.”
She carries on for another blissful twenty minutes, totally engaged.
Then we play a few tunes—me on mandolin, she on violin. Harmony. She gives me this.
She had asked to learn violin—over and over a few months ago. I said,
“OK. I’ll see what I can do, check with Mom, and find a teacher. You must practice!”
“I know. I just want to play the violin!” she exclaims with certainty.
I like to respond to a genuine yearning, and this seemed to fit the bill. Indeed, she now has a lesson each week and practices the required minimum of 5 minutes a day, at least 4 days a week.
Her enthusiasm and natural musical ability brought out my yearning to pick up the mandolin again, which is tuned the same as the violin. She gave me back that yearning, and I opened the door again to music. We play together, that evening, going over the same tune again and again. My love of music and harmony sparked by her. What a gift.
Later, at bedtime We put things away, neaten the blankets on the twin beds, and get ready to read a story. Carmen says, “We come here and we do some love,” beaming at me as she cuddles in her blanket on the bed. When she was three, she would cuddle into me. Now she gives me a hug and appreciates her own space in her own bed. Her evolution of who she is reflected in simple actions.
Before we leave two days later, we head back to the beach one more time. It is the open ocean, at Assateague National Seashore preserved without any houses or even campgrounds. On the way there, we pull over on the road when we catch sight of the herd of wild ponies grazing in the marsh. I am grateful for the people who saw to it that we could preserve land for all to enjoy.
The sea is roiling still. The clouds are dark gray, and the wind is cold. At first, she doesn’t want to get out of the car.
“It’s ok. I’ll be a minute,” I say as I jump out to pay my respects to the sea.
But she leaps out and runs to me, then dashes down the beach back and forth. We are gulping in the air and the sea all at once.
The stillness inside resonates with the stillness amid that moving ocean.
The off-season, the quiet, the ease, the alchemy of time that reverberates into eternity.