On Friday. Before the weekend rush. Squeezing in some quiet time.
The sea is about a mile down the road. And a shorter distance if we use the right of way which cuts through the properties of others, including ours. The neighbor below has blocked that path. Such a great guy. Won't miss him a bit. #%!*head.
It used to be different here. Too much money and arrogance rolled in and spoiled the community feeling.
The beach though, is still unharmed, mostly because it isn't a white sand beach with entertainment and food stands and such. It's rocky and raw. And narrow. There is a lot of boat traffic on the weekends but the beach itself remains as it has been for as long as I can remember. With the occasional pile of empty beer cans carelessly left from some secret late night teen gathering.
But honestly I just don't feel like saying a lot about it. Like the sense of spring that fills me today despite the snow expected this evening, the sense of something that has to do with everything I am considering remains unutterable in terms of what that actually might be.
And so it seems to go. I rest between doing and saying. In the between. A seam unstitched. A moment in March that has lasted longer than a day.
This place used to scare me. Now it seems more and more like home.