I am sitting here on a no longer tomato red couch with summer essentials in front of me: this laptop, my camera, a set of water colors and a set of acrylic tubes, two sizes of blank papers and postcards, my beloved iphone, a copy of The Time Traveler's Wife, a book called Reading Like a Writer: A Guide For People Who Love Books and For Those Who Want To Write Them, four thin classy white candles, a small package of paper clay, and an estimated 100 pages of a manuscript that has to find its focus and purpose.
I can't believe I'm here. I can't believe the weather is a perfect sunny mid sixties and I can't believe I feel so much at home. The creative urge is hopping. It has been six years since JB and I had this little sanctuary of a place to ourselves and there are chores to tackle: repainting the hall and back room, unpacking linens and towels, hanging paintings and pictures, replacing the screen door...s-e-t-t-l-i-n-g--in.
But these are not the same 'chores' I left at home. These are perfect chores.
We won't be here all summer (work!) but at least some of the time I can come and go. I can say I live here part-time if I want to. I can reconnect with friends here AND I can hole myself up to write. I finished The Light Stays On here, on this red couch. I also felt the full impact of a heart smashed in pieces here, and I know that this is a place that heals me. Sometimes I sound so dramatic when I talk about my broken heart or my human struggles, and sometimes I think I should explain that I have a good life, that I believe I am a lucky person, that I am grateful for abundance in love and friendship and material comfort and in certain kinds of wisdom and whimsy.
This is a picture of the bay one block down the street. It will not be unusual for me to walk to it most mornings I am here, whatever the season. When Mr. Ryand and Drew are here, we will take them to the bay at around 7 or 8 am, roll up our pants and take off our shoes and walk into low tide, stepping around the slimy seaweed, looking for baby crabs and finding schools of tiny fish in the salt water ripples.
On this bay, for years, with JB, with my dog Rosie, alone, I have walked and strolled and dipped and paddled and dreamed and imagined and envisioned and most of all let myself fall into the time and rhythm of the tides.
Here I am again. JB and I did little this morning, went to the town wide yard sales this afternoon, to the hardware store, to the kitchen shop. Now we are back for a short while before we walk to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants (Front Street). And tomorrow I will write. I may paint a wall or two too.
It's all fine.
I wish you the same, in whatever way.