third story(ies)
Menu
  • ABOUT
  • CONTACT
  • HOUSE TOUR
    • PROJECT ADDITION / “PROJECT BACK POCKET”
  • LET’S EAT
  • (STORY)TIME
  • AROUND TOWN
  • MAKING
  • ADMIRING
    • blogs i love
Menu

sunrise, sunset

Posted on March 25, 2009 by thirdstoryies

Every morning at the beach I woke up before the rest of the gang, slipped on my tennis shoes and hit the sand. With water bottle in hand and a camera over my shoulder, I made the brisk walk to the tip of the island and back – a nice three mile journey round trip. That first morning I remember taking such deep breaths. Yoga breaths, cleansing breaths. After a few minutes I’d catch myself gulping. It was like I could not get enough air in and stress out, the sound of shell fragments under my shoes and the stiff breeze off the ocean were what my body had been longing for all winter. I was stiff at first, forgetting how it felt to walk in warmth, at my own pace, in my own space. I’d been walking on borrowed time at home, catching a quick trot or two around the park whenever the weather broke for more than a minute, but still stiff-backed and tense against the winter winds. These beach walks were different. I had no other commitments to the day except to stretch those aching underused muscles and ligaments and rock that restless nighttime swimmer inside to sleep with my rhythmic pace. I made this same walk later in the afternoon, and again sometimes in the evening, but it was that morning walk that took me out of my old place and into a new place of calm and of peace.


To say that a healthy pregnancy in itself is not a joy would be a lie. It’s a fantastic and fragile journey that we are lucky to be taking once again. We have known what it is is like to have that journey shortened, and we are always grateful for the health and vigor of this new little one inside. But pregnancy is not a pleasant experience for me. My husband may tell me that I’m glowing, but that’s just a combination of chubby cheeks when I smile and good lotion. I have not enjoyed the violent sickness that lingers on still, no one who’s gone through it can tell you that they enjoy feeling like they have the flu for five or six months straight. I don’t care for the endless churning and poking from within, the urgent need to go to the bathroom every time I slightly shift positions, the way my sneezes don’t completely release, but get tangled up just like my diaphragm is now tangled up somewhere in my upper ribcage. And that muscle strain in January? That was, in itself, a true test of my stamina and composure. Luckily no one came along during that time and offered me a fair trade for my roommate. I was in no way capable of making the appropriate motherly choice. And the fatigue, oh the fatigue. I close my eyes for the few moments it takes my photos to upload. I close them in the shower. I close them in the bathroom at work.

Perhaps that’s why a vacation at the beach is so important to me, so essential. It allows me to wake up each day and walk towards that sun, releasing the stress and the tension that will inevitably build up again that day. The weight of change, of growth, of responsibility, of the unknown presses its way into me as each day goes by. I toss with this weight at night, changing positions for comfort, for relief, for necessity. My bones feel old and tired and strained at daybreak, but then I put on those shoes and stretch them out once again into a shape that resembles the person that I was and that I will be again. And I give thanks for my walking companion who accompanies me on this journey we are taking together.


…

Sunsets are so different. They are social, they are communal. They are better spent in reflection on the day’s events, the changing tide, the too large dinner or the dinner yet-to-be. Skin feels warmer, tighter from a day spent in the sun and water; hair smells of salt and wind and suntan lotion and sand dusts your forearms and the backs of your calves. Tennis shoes have been discarded and the flip flops dangle from your fingers and your daughter yawns the yawns of swimmers who will fall asleep the moment their head hits the pillow. Sunsets at the beach are so valuable because there is no tallying of items done or needed to be done that day. They are just the passing of the day, not of time, or of our role in it. It takes real effort to halt the unconscious counting down that occurs during pregnancy – the counting down of weeks, of days, the minutes between contractions, the breaths and bursts of effort to bring this child into the world. At the beach there is no counting of days, just sitting on the sand at sunset with your arms around your daughter, watching the sun slip into the ocean once again.

1 thought on “sunrise, sunset”

  1. Nancy says:
    March 25, 2009 at 3:22 am

    Looks like a great vacation was had by all. Totaly jealous. DC is so stinkin’ cold.

    So sorry you’ve been through some rocky times. Makes this new little one even that much more special! My prayers are with you and that baby for some smooth sailing here on out! Hope they work!

    Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

CommentLuv badgeShow more posts

Welcome!

Welcome.

This is a blog about an old house with a new life (and all the lives within it). There are plenty of stories to tell.

Recent Comments

  • Susan on CONTACT
  • Kristin on what’s next?
  • Jennifer Fairchild on what’s next?
  • Sue J. on what’s next?
  • Jamie on modern victorian terrace garden – part three, design
  • Kristin on CONTACT
  • Kim on CONTACT
  • ivana on admiring: sun print tiles
  • Kristin on the garden part of the garden, part two
  • Sue J. on the garden part of the garden, part two
March 2009
S M T W T F S
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
293031  
« Feb   Apr »

Recent Posts

  • what’s next?
  • the garden part of the garden, part two
  • the garden part of the garden, part one
  • front garden, next steps: pebble mosaic
  • holiday letter 2020

Archives

Categories

  • (story)time
  • admiring
  • general
  • holiday story(ies)
  • house tour
  • let's eat
  • letters to my loves
  • local haunts
  • making
  • party(ies)
  • project addition
  • renovation
  • Uncategorized
©2021 third story(ies) | Design by Superb