Long weekend thoughts

Last summer, we spent an extended weekend in Cape May, NJ. I love that place. (I wrote about that visit here, and I even featured the same seagull that's shown above, but in photographic format instead of acrylics; just scroll down if you do click on that link, because the gull photo's at the bottom.)

Now that Memorial Day is upon us (don't forget to hang an American flag if you don't display one already!), I have begun thinking summer thoughts. Many folks head beachward for the big weekend. Sadly, we will not be among the beach-bound, but perhaps we can finish some half-completed home projects in between barbecues?

I finished this painting a couple of days ago. He's for sale in my Etsy shop. This made for a prettier picture than another gull image that's seared in my brain; on that particularly memorable occasion, while enjoying our lunch at an outdoor cafe, we observed a gang of sea gulls attacking a beachgoer's bags of unsecured snacks, then devouring them... only to find out later that the victims of the thievery were staying in our bed and breakfast. Poor folks. They hadn't learned, yet, the incredible damage a flock of seagulls can wreak.

Gulls are very smart birds; experts train them to do all sorts of tricks at the National Aviary on the North Side of Pittsburgh. I could digress here, and lead into a rant about birds being smarter than some bird-brained individuals I keep encountering... but I don't want to lay that on you when there's an important holiday, and another long weekend, winking at us all. So, gulls are smart. I'll leave it at that.

Thank a veteran for service. Thank another in honor of those who lost lives while serving; pray for those who've come back and brought injuries and anguish with them. This cushy realm we call America could not exist without their sacrifice.

(Although, if the current leadership keeps up its relentless efforts to kill the freedoms I love through lies, deception, and the systematic dismantling of the Constitution, our cushy realm will completely cease to exist... Oops. There I go again.)

Oceanic thoughts

My son has eyes the color of the sea—
Sometimes a blue-grey, other times grey-green.
The twinkle of the sun upon his gaze?
The sweetest sight my own brown eyes have seen.

We visited the shore last weekend. Cape May, NJ is one of my favorite places. To walk through that town is akin to stepping back in time. Families go biking together, huge farm horses clip-clop along, pulling rubber-necking tourists in buggies, and everywhere you look are grand, elegant Victorian homes decked out in luscious colors and fine details. Not to mention the salty air and the crash of waves upon sand.

There is no other realm like the seashore. It's one of the few places where I can honestly say that my mind is a blank page. In the real world, my brain is in overdrive, poring over plans and thoughts, fighting through moments of confusion or anxiety, trying to extricate facts and memories. But on the sand, watching the waves roll, feeling the power of those countless gallons? Nada. Empty brain.

Majestic, land-locked sights can transport me, too, but they have to be pretty darned huge and impressive to actually clear my mind of thoughts. Rocky Mountains, canyons, waterfalls, yes—but even those beauties do not have the power to erase that the ocean has.

Now we're home, and school has begun. That cleansing salty air is nowhere near. It's up to me to seek that same mental place, here amid the crowded green hills of western PA.

Wish me luck; it ain't gonna be easy.

And yet more about expectations

I've been thinking about expectations, and how they shape our perception of—well, of everything.

(I touched on expectations here once before. Here I go again.)

We spent a long weekend in Cape May, NJ, and arrived home this past Sunday evening. It was nice to get away, the town was as beautiful as always, we climbed lighthouse steps and rode in a horse-drawn carriage and visited a Civil War village and ate far too much food that someone else had prepared and consequently cleaned up. It was fun.

But the weather mostly stunk. We knew, thanks to internet weather reports, that an unseasonable cold snap was expected, both here and there. We packed jackets, and rain coats, and umbrellas. And we didn't use them the whole time, but we did use them a significant portion of the time. We squeezed in some beach fun, but we also spent time looking longingly, through mist and raindrops and wind, at the nearly inhospitable shore. I fumed a bit on the drive home, felt sorry for myself, composed various blog posts with silly titles such as 'Scuse Me while I Curse the Sky... (I kid you not.)

Yet, the weekend was nice, and relaxing, and trouble-free. Even the rides there and back weren't bad. The newly purchased used car ran like a champ, we saw mountains, and Amish buggies, and rolling hills with barns tucked neatly within. We neatly avoided Philly at rush hour. Whew.

So what was lacking? Not much. Some sunshine, some warmer temperatures, I guess—I was expecting air temps to match the water temps (upper 70s) as they normally do in mid-September. (The water was great; the air, not so.) And there's the problem word: expecting. I was anticipating a certain type of visit, and we didn't have it. So now I feel disenchanted, disappointed, cheated of what should have been a warm, balmy weekend. But why? We're all humans living on this changeable orb. We know, by now, that weather is not a sure thing in any direction. We know that it isn't always sunny at the beach. Yet still, there's this pervasive feeling of discontentment in my gut.

Expectations can get us into trouble emotionally. If I'm learning any lesson consistently and repeatedly, it's that I need to expect less from life. I need to stop expecting good weather, uncomplicated days, and excellent health. I need to stop expecting people to be good, and thoughtful, and unselfish. I need to remember which world I'm currently inhabiting, and start living with more appreciation for the many times when things actually do go well and I ride the wave of relative ease of living. Truly, for most of us these days, life is pretty easy. We have so many gadgets, countless conveniences, comforts, and abundance, that it seems we've lost sight of the harsh reality that there's still so much we can't control.

Like the weather at the beach.

So, I need to turn my foolish little expectations on their heads. Let's see what that looks like:

I'm so glad that a hurricane didn't hit land while we were there! I'm so thankful that our tire didn't fall off en route and roll down a mountainside. I'm so happy that the horse pulling our Cape May carriage was obedient and stopped at the light instead of rolling through the busy intersection or charging a pedestrian. I'm really delighted that Marcus's slight cold didn't turn into a full-fledged illness with fever and chills. I'm very relieved that no one mugged me because this was one of the few times each year when I actually had cash in my purse. I'm thankful that I was blessed enough to have my own great little family to accompany me on this drizzly escapade.

There. That wasn't so hard, was it? No. It wasn't. We aren't perfect. Life isn't perfect. It's good, but not perfect. And that's okay. I can hope for better weather next time, but I need to steer clear of "why, why, woe unto us."

It was fun. And the last positive spin? All that cold wetness made it much easier to depart on the final day. Here's to realistic expectations, and nurturing a grateful heart.

Was it only last Monday?

A week ago today, I stood in sand,

My feet all buried in the gritty stuff.

I gazed upon horizon, flat and straight,

And listened to the ceaseless, surging surf.

(The sea has no desire to converse—
She's happy only when she has the floor.)
I took a therapeutic, salty breath,
Then filled lungs to capacity once more.

Last week, the days lay open and unplanned;
My schedule was determined by the sun.
Today? I'm driving to the dentist's chair.
My foremost thought? "Could I have dreamed such fun?"

Snapshots

Hey, I should've told you all by now that we survived the getaway. No worries. Long trip there, shorter trip back, beautiful weather, and a lovely little inn where we were comfortably housed. Spacious front porches with plenty of rocking chairs, bikes and horse-drawn carriages, sand and surf as far as the eye could see, and a little boy consistently sporting the broadest smile of his life.

One particular small memory will stay with me for some time: I'm sitting under our beach umbrella, comfortable in my low-slung chair, reading a most appropriate title (Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh). The waves are alternately lapping and crashing, other families are set up all around me, gulls are screeching and searching for every available snack, and Todd and my son are out playing in the water. Minutes pass, and I'm half-paying attention, reading a few lines, then gazing out at the water, when I realize that I hear my sweet little boy humming to himself, a tuneless little ditty that he repeats again and again. They must have come in to play in the sand and I didn't even see them, I think to myself.

I look around me, trying to locate my husband and child, following the sound of the innocent little-boy voice as it expresses absolute contentment through music. And then I find the source—and it's not my little guy at all! It's another small boy, not quite as young as mine, and he is sitting near my right side, filling buckets with sand and then dumping them methodically, all the while humming humming humming. His song mingles with the breeze, the gulls, the waves, the melded human voices murmuring and giggling and calling out all around me.

In that moment, I feel so connected to my fellow man. One small boy's song could be another's, one sun-streaked head blends into the rest, our voices form one collective tune as we gather here on the edge of the land to be washed clean and free and unblemished. We're speaking different languages, some are thin while others are fat, we are many different colors and ages and styles. But we've all come essentially for the same reason, seeking respite and renewal. We all are humbled at least somewhat when we stand and surmise the enormous pond before us.

They don't all feel like family—but they sort of are, aren't they?

A-traveling we will go

Very soon, in fact. Going coastal (as opposed to postal). I don't travel quite as easily as I used to. Suddenly, the outing seems more complicated because there is so much more to consider. You know, like those thoughts that float to the forefront of your mind at 3am, the thoughts that are sort of ludicrous in the light of day but not so simply dismissed when you're the only person awake and it's pitch dark... Thoughts like this:

• what if we wreck on the way and the only survivor is my child?
• what if it rains the whole time and we just blew hundreds of dollars for nada?
• what if the dolphin-watching cruise we're taking happens to sink?
• what if I don't use enough sunscreen and my kid gets scorched?
• what if there's an early hurricane?
• what if we get to the inn and they have no record of us even though I confirmed with them today? and we can't find another vacancy?
• what if one of us gets food poisoning?
• what if there's a terrorist attack while we're there?
• what if the attack happens there?
• what if the whole healthcare system collapses thanks to those jackaninnies in DC and I get seriously ill and can't find treatment?
• what if neither my husband nor I ever find viable employment again?

Okay, okay, those last few thoughts have nothing to do with travel. I need to stay focused. ; ) And I must remember to trust, to actually start practicing all those doctrines I so glibly shared with other people during their hard times. We're okay. We have enough for today. We have enough that we didn't cancel this little upcoming getaway. We believe that we're not in control and the One who is in control has never let us down yet. He's allowed bad things to happen sometimes—but He's been there through it and brought us out on the other side. The record is pretty promising. I must hold tight to that, especially at 3 am.

Wonder if faithful, fearless thinking will be any easier in a strange bed, in a strange town, at 3am?

I'm excited to go, truly I am. We all could use the distraction for certain—as evidenced here. I'll let you know whether any of my fears are realized...assuming that I'm able, of course.

Making an escape, whatever way you can

It’s February in western Pennsylvania. Cold, damp, with bracing winds. Unforgiving. Unlovable. To rub salt water in the wound, several folks I know—family and friends—are escaping to Florida this weekend. So, I’ve had Florida on my mind.

The last time I visited Florida was in March 2004, I believe. The painting above is based on a photo from that visit; the setting was DeSoto Beach, near Tampa, if I’m remembering correctly. There’s an old fort there too (aptly named Fort DeSoto), in a pristine state park full of seascapes you imagined and then found in reality. The whole trip remains a precious, balmy memory that I store safely in a special corner of my mind; I’ve returned to that shore many times since my actual return. Someday I’ll go back.

People we know, Pittsburgh natives, moved to Tampa a few years ago and then, this past December, made the pilgrimage north, back to this cold place. I thought of them several times during that week that they relocated; it was frigid here, snowy and messy as I recall, and I was wondering if they questioned their decision at all. Of course, if I were living in Tampa when Katrina or any of her violent cousins came ashore, I would probably be questioning that decision, too.

I still wish I were in Florida right now. I think I’ll go sit by the kerosene heater, close my eyes, and put on my Polynesian beach CD that sounds like ocean waves lapping in the background. A weak substitute for the real thing, I know—but all I can manage right now.

Happy vacationing and a safe trip, you travelers. (You know who you are. )