Heaven on Earth

30 Days of Gratitude

Day Two

What is it about the beach that leaves me feeling sated and luxuriously empty at the same time?

The senses are attacked from every corner but never overwhelmed – everywhere is something to fill the spirit: Sunlight dancing on the water like my daughter’s long-ago piles of princess glitter; the soul-shaking crash of the waves on the sand; the sound of the wind creaking through the palmetto trees; the feel of sun and crisp air and salt on my skin; the warm fullness of my belly from beach grits and Eloise’s home-baked cookies and a good, smooth rum. And just when it seems to be all and enough, the glorious sight of dolphins jumping and splashing just beyond the breaking waves.

On this chilly November evening, Day Two of my Gratitude Journey, I am thankful for the proximity of the beach, and for the fact that, while I am far from wealthy, I am comfortable enough to be able to afford at least one solid weekend at the beach each year.  Some people may not find South Carolina ideal, but the most wonderful thing about it is that it’s close to the ocean and the mountains. In two or three hours, I can be in a completely different landscape, gazing at rocky outcroppings or sunlight dancing on sea foam.

Sometimes as I’m making my way eastward, I am still feeling stressed or fearful or overwhelmed by my busy, complex life … but all it takes is the smell of the salt marsh, the grit of cool sand between my toes, one vibrant sunrise over the water to render me relaxed and healthy again. Clarity comes and my heart beats more slowly.   

What did I do to deserve this?

The beach holds so many of my most precious memories: a house at Edisto that has been a part of my history for so long, the weeks spent there unconnected until relatively recently. Other houses at Folly Beach or Pawleys Island that welcome me back like I’m coming home to something.

I went as a child to an old cottage in Edisto with a friend and her parents. Years later, I spent my first adult vacation at the same house, with three women twice my age who spent the days picking up shells and the nights playing cards on the porch. I went with friends for a full week – a WEEK!!! – to this house; we rented it every October, when fall was coyly flirting with a fading summer. My child was quite possibly conceived in the house at Edisto, and I married my best friend in its tiny front yard, under the arbor of an old dead bush my soon-to-be husband lovingly turned into a honeysuckle-filled grotto. My trusted dog Barney was a witness; my family was here, my brother David doing the honors for a father-less child and walking me down the back steps to the man who was waiting to spend the rest of our lives together. And here we are, my husband and I, 15 years later, still walking the same path. We struggle to understand each other, to be patient with one another, to make it through the disconnect that sometimes happens even to people who love each other … but we have learned that the struggle is where the meat is, where the heart is, where we need to be when we can’t recognize ourselves anymore.

My lifelong friend, a woman I’ve known for 43 years, shares her birthday with me at the beach every year, and our weekend together is always relaxing and full of laughter and silliness and good books to read while lounging in the hammock.

Sometimes, when I’m in desperate need of a break, a change, something spontaneous, I drag friends and their families to the beach, even if only for a day, to hear that thunderous roar again, see how very big the ocean is, remember how small my problems really are.

For all those nights on the sleeping porch, I’m genuinely grateful.